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HALF HOURS 



UDEVIL 



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WALTERHBAKER© CS 

BOSTON 






THE AMAZONS ^^^^^ "^ Three Acts. Seven males, five females. 
Costumes, modern ; scenery, not difficult. Plays 
a full evening. 

THE CABINET MINISTER ^:Z^:'Z^^Zr2Zl 

scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

DANHY DICR ^^^^ "* Three Acts. Seven males, four females. 
Costumes, modern ; scenery, two interiors. Plays 
two hours and a half. 

THF fi AY TORI) OIIFX comedy in Four Acts. Four maleS; ten 

^ V females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, 

two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. 

HI5 HAITCP IW ADDPD Comedy in Four Acts, Nine males, four 

013 flUt^C in UKIIEH f^^^i^g Costumes, modern; scenery, 

three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

THF HORRY HORSF C<^°^®<^y ^ Three Acts. Ten males, five 
^^ females. Costumes, modern; scenery easy. 

Plays two hours and a half. 

IRIS ^^^^^ ^ ^^^^ Acts. Seven males, seven females. Costumes, 
modern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

T AHY ROIINTIFFIF ^^^ ^^ Four Acts. Eight males, seven fe- 

14 UVU 1 DI4 jjjales. Costumes, modern ; scenery, four in- 
teriors, not easy. Plays a full evening. 

T FTTY ^^^^^ ^ Four Acts and an Epilogue. Ten males, five fe- 
^^ males. Costumes, modern ; scenery compUcated. Plays a 

full evening. 



Sent prepaid on receipt of price by 

Waltn ^. 'Bafeer & Compani? 

No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 



HALF HOURS OF 
VAUDEVILLE 



By 
GORDAN V. MAY 

Author of ''Red Acre Farm,'' ''Bar HaveUy' "At Random 

Ruriy' "The Great Winterson MineT ''John Brag, 

Deceased;' "The Red Rosette," "The Starry 

Flag," "By the Enemy's Hands," "The Little 

Black Devil," " Outwitting the Colonel," 

"Wanted: A Mahatma," etc. 



NOTICE TO PROFESSIONALS 



These sketches are published for amateurs only. Professional actors 
are forbidden the use of them in any form or under any title, without the 
consent of the author, who may be addressed in care of the publishers. 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO, 
1913 



PREFACE 



T543^ 



In arranging an entertainment for club, lodge, church or society, 
how often does the committee in charge find themselves with a 
half-hour on their hands, for which no suitable feature has been 
prepared. 

It is for just such occasions that this book has been arranged; 

The selections are all up to date, and have been written with 
the view of pleasing just such audiences. 

They can be played in any lodge room, church platform, or even 
in a parlor ; and while simple in construction, give ample oppor- 
tunity for the display of histrionic talent. 




Copyright, 191 3, by W'^iJter H. Baker & Co. 



.S)CI.D 3S3fi4 



CONTENTS 

Male Female 

One Little Shoe Dramatic Sketch . i i 

Just Notions Farcical " . i i 

After Many Years .... Dramatic " .2 2 

A Lesson In Love .... Comedy " . i i 

The Baby Comedy " .1 i 

The Baby . . . same as above, arranged for . 2 

Vengeance Is Mine .... Tragic Sketch . 2 

Dr. Dobbs' Assistant . • . Farcical " .6 

For the Sake OF A Thousand Comedy " .2 i ' 

Marinda's Beaus Comic Pantomime 2 i 



1750-1912 



NOTE 



A feature of the Bijou performances of this last sketch was the 
two songs introduced into this piece — " When I Was Belle of 
Beacon Street" (sung by Miss Gertrude Breene) and "The 
Modern Girl" (sung by Miss Betty Barnicoat). Arrangements 
for the use of these numbers may be made by addressing Mr. Carl 
Wilmore, B. F. Keith's Bijou Theatre, Washington Street, Boston, 
Mass. 



One Little Shoe 

A Dramatic Sketch 



CHARACTERS 

Archie Baldwin. 

Mrs. Valerie Baldwin, his wife. 

SCENE. — Parlor of the Baldwins' home. An elaborate in- 
terior. Music for rise of curtain, ^^ Hot Time in the Old 
Town To-night:' 

{Both enter center door at back, at rise. They are both 
dressed in evening clothes, and appear very angry. Val. 
comes down r., takes off her hat and wrap and angrily 
flings them over a chair. Arch, at the same time comes 
down L., tosses his hat on a chair, and jerks off his gloves 
and hurls them in a corner.') 

Val. {facing him from doivn R.). Now that we are at last 
alone, I should be pleased to receive some explanation of your 
conduct at the ball this evening, Mr. Baldwin. 

Arch. Really, you are not gifted with the discernment for 
which I have always given you credit if an explanation is 
necessary, Mrs, Baldwin. 

Val. But you acted like a fool the whole evening. And I 
cannot understand why. It was a grand success. I am sure 
I enjoyed myself thoroughly. 

Arch. It is entirely unnecessary for you to assure me of 
that. The fact was only too self-evident. 

Val. Well! And why not? That is what I went for. 
Didn't you enjoy yourself? 

Arch. Yes; on two distinct occasions. Once, when I 
smoked a cigar with Cranford on the balcony; and later, when 
I put you into the carriage and followed. 

5 



6 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Val. You never did enjoy social affairs. You are always 
finding excuses for staying at home when I want you to go 
anywhere. I wonder that you went to-night. 

Arch. Now, that is the very question I have been trying to 
solve the whole evening. It must have been fate. 

Val. {scornfully). Fate? Nonsense. 

Arch. Well, I am rather glad now that I went. 

Val. All, then you are willing to admit 

Arch. There, there, hold on. Don't get the idea that it 
was because I had a pleasant time. Far from it. But it gave 
me a chance to note your conduct. 

Val. My conduct? 

Arch. Yes, with other men. 

Val. {indigfiatitly). What do you mean, Archibald Bald- 
win? 

Arch. Pray don't get theatrical. 

Val. But I demand to know. 

Arch, {deliberately). Very well, Mrs. Baldwin. Let me 
recall a few facts to your mind. You danced ten times to- 
night. Once with your brother; once with our host, and eight 
times with — whoui ? Who was it took you in to supper ? 
Who took you to the conservatory? Yes, and by gad, who 
would have seen you to your carriage, if I hadn't stepped in 
and suggested the propriety of a man seeing his own wife 
home ? Who ? Who, I say ? Why, Frank Graydon. 

Val. And does this call for the insinuations you have 
made ; that I accept the conmion courtesies from a gentleman 
when my husband is derelict in his duty ? You do not care 
for dancing ; I am fond of it. Mr. Graydon, a friend of 
yours, by the way, has the instincts of a gentleman enough to 
offer me the chance to enjoy myself. As for supper and the 
conservatory — {?naki7ig a gesture) my liege lord was not to be 
found on either occasion. 

Arch. Fine words. Fine words. Now, I never gave 
Graydon credit for so much of that gentlemanly instinct. The 
fact is a surprise to me. 

Val. Oh, you evidently have considerable to learn. 

Arch. I fully agree with you there. I have considerable 
to learn — particularly about my own wife. 

Val. If it is your intention to insult me, Mr. Baldwin, I 
will leave the room. {Starts up stage.) 

Arch. Oh, pray don't trouble yourself. I will save you 
the inconvenience of retiring by doing so myself. And I might 



ONE LITTLE SHOE 7 

remark in passing that I will not be home to-morrow. I am 
going to Boston on business. 

Val. And what about the opera to-morrow night ? 

Arch, {sneeringly). Oli, you should find no difficulty in 
securing an escort, even if your liege lord is not to be found. 
No doubt Graydon 

Val. Stop ! You have gone quite far enough. I will 
stand no more. Let us end it here and now. 

Arch. A good idea. 

Val. I will leave for home in the morning. 

Arch. All right. [Picks up a railroad time-table and 
offers it to her.) Here is a time-table. I think the first train 
leaves at six-thirty. Shall I tell the cook to have your break- 
fast ready at six? 

Val. No, sir. I'll not eat another meal in this house. 
I'll go home to my mother. 

Arch. Well, for all I care, you can go to 

Val. {interrupting quickly). Sir? 

Arch. Your mother. 

Val. (^pulling off her wedding ring and flinging it on the 
floor). There is your wedding ring. I hereby renounce you 
forever and ever. 

Arch. Amen. 

Val. I hope the next woman who wears it will get better 
treatment than I have received. 

Arch. Next woman ? I hope I may drown before I ever 
put a ring on another woman's finger. 

Val. {scornfully). Drown ? You couldn't keep your empty 
head under water long enough to drown. 

Arch, (bowing mockingly). Thank you. Is there any other 
compliment you would like to pay me before you go ? If there 
is, I pray you don't hesitate about expressing it. 

Val. Rest assured, if I can think of anything that fittingly 
describes you, I shall express it. But the poor English lan- 
guage is so inadequate. 

Arch. It is too bad you didn't study Chinese. 

{Takes a cigar from his pocket a fid lights it.) 

Val. It is too bad I didn't marry one. Even a heathen 
would be far preferable to you. 

Arch. Marry a Chinese ? {Laughs.) You couldn't. They 
only like women with small feet. 



8 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Val. My feet ! Why, I only wear two. 

Arch. Yes, two shoes. But size eight. 

Val. Ruffian! Monster I {SJie starts threateningly toward 
him, and he puffs a cloud of smoke her way. She pauses and 
coughs.') Smoking again. It is only done to annoy me. You 
know very well how I abhor it. 

Arch, (^goes puffiug smoke about the room between his 
words). VVell, after your display of wifely devotion, this 
room is in sore need of fumigating. 

Val. (^hysterical). I have a mind to kill myself. 

Arch. Never change your mind. The river is only a Short 
distance away. 

Val. {thoughtfully). Ah, yes. The cold, cold river. 

Arch. Oh, don't let that worry you. You will be plenty 
warm enough after you are dead. I know where you are 
going. 

Val. Ah, my death would please you too well. No, sir. 
I will live and publish your cruelty to the world. 

Arch. Publish it, eh? Well, I guess I can do a little pub- 
lishing on my own account. {Sits at a desk and turites.) 
"To whom it may concern. This is to certify that my wife, 
Valerie Baldwin, has this day left my bed and board, and I 
will not be responsible for any debts she may contract. Signed, 
Archibald Baldwin." There. {Rises.) That will go in the 
morning papers. 

Val. {snapping her fingers). Pah ! A fig for your re- 
sponsibility. I want none of your money. My father always 
paid my bills before I married you. 

Arch. Yes, and he has not got over the financial strain yet. 

Val. You brute. I'll pack my things at once. [Exit, r. 

Arch. Pack them as soon as you can. I am tired and sick 
of this wrangling. It puts a crimp into my temper that will 
take months to smooth out. {Enter Val., r. She has her 
arms full of clothing, among which must be concealed a pair of 
trousers and a baby's shoe. Arch, watches her from down r.) 
Be sure and take everything that belongs to you. 

Val. {dropping clothing on the floor down L., and kneeling 
beside them). I will. But have no fear. I'll not take any- 
thing that don't belong to me. {Pulls out the pair of trousers.) 
Here is something that don't belong to me. {Holds thejn up.) 

Arch. Oh, yes. That is a pair of my trousers that I gave 
you a week ago, and asked to have buttons sewed on the back. 

Val. Indeed ? I fail to recall the circumstance. Still I 



ONE LITTLE SHOE 9 

will not allow you to say that 1 have been remiss in my duty. 
I will sew them on now. (J^ises, still holding trousers,') 

Arch. Oh, don't bother. Since you have seen fit to let 
them go so long, you need not get conscientious at the eleventh 
hour. Give them to me. {He catches hold of one leg.) 

Val. I won't. Give them to me. 

(^She has hold of the other leg. ) 

Arch. I'll sew the buttons on. 

Val. No, you won't, either. (^They each pull at trousers 
and tear them apart.) Well, I'll sew one button on, anyway. 

(Sits L., and has business of sewing on a button.) 

Arch. You won't get a chance to sew the other one on. 
I'll do it myself. 

Val. {scornfully). You? 
Arch. Yes, me. 

{He has comedy business of going off and retur?iing tvith a 
large needle and some heavy thread, or cord. Sits and at- 
tempts to sew on the button. Pricks his finger, seivs up 
the leg ivith the button, and sews the leg to his own cloth- 
ing, and other comic business.) 

Val. {having finished sewing her button oti). There. {She 
tosses the leg of trousers across the room to him. ) You won't 
be able to say I didn't do your mending. Give me the other 
one. 

Arch. I won't. 

Val. Oh, very well. 

{She kneels once more before the pile of clothing and begins 
laying them aside, folding them, etc. While she is busy 
at this work. Arch, gets a bottle of 7nucilage frotn desk, 
and laying the ttvo legs on the floor tries to stick them to- 
gether tvith the gum. Comedy business. At last Val. 
discovers the baby's shoe. Music pp. from this point on to 
the end of sketch. She is about to toss it aside, but pauses, 
looks at it, then toward Arch., who is busy and does not 
notice. She fondles the shoe, kisses it, and rising, starts 
impulsively toward Arch. He glances up with afroiun, 
a7id she stops. He turns to his work and the business is 
repeated. Then she lays the shoe on a table down c. , be- 
tween them, coughs and returns to her packing. Arch. 



10 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

rises, shakes the trouser legs angrily and starts toward 
the table. Discovers the shoe. Pauses, glances at it, and 
then at Val., who does not ?iotice. He takes it up ^ fon- 
dles it, kisses it, wipes his eyes as if crying, and blows his 
nose. Val. glances up and he drops shoe on table and 
turns away whistling. Val. rises with arms outstretched, 
staggers to table and drops into chair, burying her face in 
her hands, with the shoe beneath them. Arch, looks at 
her, Sfnokes vigorously, then noticing the smoke, throws the 
cigar away. He goes slowly toward the table. She 
moves and he retreats. This business is repeated. Then 
he comes to other side of table and pauses. Note. — This 
business must be well worked up.) 

Arch. Ahem. Mrs. Baldwin. {Pause.) Mrs. Baldwin. 
{Pause.) Mrs. Baldwin ! 

Val. {raising a tear-stained face). Well ? 

Arch, {starting at sight of her face and turning atuay). 
Ere — nothing. 

Val. {speaking brokefily). Will yon let me take tliis shoe, 
Archibald ? It's one of those our baby wore before she died. 

Arch, {after clearing his throat), Nooo. 

Val. {rising imperiously as if to speak a?igrily, then bowing 
her head, kissing the shoe a?id offering if to him). Very well. 
Here it is. 

Arch, {taki fig hold of shoe). Valerie. 

Val. {looking up a?td still holding shoe). Archie. 

Arch. I — I — cannot let it go. 

Val. And — I — cannot leave it. 

Arch. Then stay, and we will cherish it together. {He 
draws her to him and they start to walk r., wheii he suddenly 
pauses as if having stepped on something. Glances down and 
picks up her wedding ring.) What is that? Oh, your wed- 
ding ring. 

Val. {offering her finger). Please put it on again, Archie. 

Arch. Not now, dear. To-morrow you shall go to Boston 
with me, and in some quiet country chapel we will be married 
again. For to-night let us be lovers once more. 

{Leads her toward exit as curtain falls.) 
CURTAIN 



Just Notions 

A Farcical Sketch 



CHARACTERS 

A Woman, slightly demented. 

A Tramp, hired to look after her. 

SCENE. — An ordinary interior. A table with writing ma- 
terials, and various small articles, doivn l. c. Two chairs. 

Enter Tkmav from back at rise. He is dressed in very shabby 
clothing. He may introduce a song if desired. 

Tramp. Well, here I am, engaged at fifty dollars a month, 
and feed, to look after a woman who is slightly out of her mind. 
Not violent, so they told me, but just given to notions. Well, 
I can stand notions. In fact, a fellow who has been eaten by 
dogs, tossed by bulls, thrown off side door pullman cars, and 
managed to live through a young wife's cooking, can stand 
almost anything. {Looks off r.) Ah, here comes my patient 
now. She does look harmless. 

Enter Woman at r. She may be dressed in a?iy comical garb, 
atid wear a hat, in which there is a very large hatpin. 

Woman {coming sloivly down to Tramp). Good-morning, 
Mr. Shakespeare. 

Tramp. Hey? I didn't get you. Come again. 

Woman. 1 said good-morning, Mr. Shakespeare. Have 
you the play ready that I am to star in ? 

Tramp. Oh, yes, certainly. {Aside.) Gee whiz, she takes 
me for that guy wot wrote Ham-omlet, and the Other-feller. 
Well, I'll just humor her. That is the best way to get along 
with folks that are a little bit off their nob; just let them have 
their own way. 

Woman. Mr. Shakespeare? 

II 



12 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Tramp. Yes, mam. 

Woman. 1 called to read that play. 

Tramp. Certainly, certainly. {He takes from a pocket a 
large roll of paper, filled with large Chmese characters.') I 
just got it from {jnefitiofi some local per so fi). 

Woman. Indeed? And does he write good plays? I 
never heard of him. 

{Takes roll of paper and scaiis it carefully.') 

Tramp. Does he? Well, 1 just guess yes. 

Woman. Ah, I like this very much. Especially the stab- 
bing scene. 

Tramp {startled). W-h-a-t? 

Woman. Why, yes. There it is. Can't you see it? 

Tramp {scanning paper). Ummmm — oh, yes — how foolish 
of me not to notice it. 

Woman. Just let me try that scene. I'll use my hatpin for 
a dagger. {Takes hatpin from her hat.) Now, foul wretch, 
I have you ! {Catches Tramp by the shoulder.) 

Tramp {breaking away). Oh, no, you haven't. 

Woman. Come here. {Stamps her foot.) Come here. 
This minute, I say. 

Tramp {aside). She treats me just as if I was a dog. 

{He moves to her side slowly , a?id with much hesitation.) 

Woman {again catchifig him by the shoulder). Ah, long 
have I prayed for this hour. I can see your craven heart. 

Tramp. I shouldn't wonder ; it's in my throat. 

Woman. Ah, coward, you tremble. And well you may. 

Tramp. Yes, let me go. I've got chills and fever. 

Woman. But it will avail you naught. I see your game. 

Tramp. Yes, and I see yours. It's cut throat. 

Woman. See my gleaming dagger. I raise it aloft. I 
strike 



{She attempts to stab him, but he breaks aivay and gets 
behind table.) 

Tramp. Well, strike if you want to, but you won't get a 
raise of salary out of me. 

Woman. You are just too mean for anything. I'll write 
home to father and tell him how cruelly you have treated me. 
{She comes quickly to table^ catches hold of his head, bends it 



JUST NOTIONS 13 

over on the table, writes on his face, and puts a postage stamp 
on the end of his nose. The ivriting may be done with a bit 
of charcoal, or a black lining pencil.) There. Now, John, 
just take this letter and post it. 

Tramp. Am I John ? 

Woman. Why, of course you are. 

Tramp. Oh, I see. I am John, and I am also the letter. 
All right, John, post the letter. 

(^He has comic business of trying to carry himself off stage. 
Then he returns.) 

Woman. Now we will take a spin in my auto. {SJie goes to 
Tramp, down c, takes his hand and holds it to her car, wliilc 
she talks into his ear, as if she were telephoning.) Hello, 
Central ! Please give me six, six, seven, Belmont. 

Tramp {aside). Oh, she is certainly crazy all right, all 
right. She can't tell-a-phone when she sees one. 

Woman. Hello ! Is this Thomas ? Yes ? Well, this is 
your mistress. Flora Adele Van Aslorbilt. Send the auto 
around to the door at once ! Eh ? Yes, at once. The auto ! 
At once I said ! 

{She gradually speaks louder, until she is shouting in his ear.) 

Tramp {squirming about). Oh, I say, ring off, won't you? 

Woman {still at 'photie). All right. I will be ready as 
soon as 

Tramp {breakifig away and rubbing his ear). Sorry, mam, 
but you see somebody else cut in on the wire. 

Woman. Never mind. Here is the auto now. {She takes 
the two chairs, places one in front of the other, and sits in the 
rear one.) Get in, Thomas, and be very careful not to exceed 
the speed limit. 

Tramp {seating himself in the front chair ; speakitig aside). 
Well, say now, wouldn't this just electrocute you? 

Woman. Why have we stopped ? 

Tramp. Hey ? 

Woman. Why have we stopped ? Something must be the 
matter. Do get out and see what it is. Perhaps the motor is 
out of order. Come, come, hurry up! I cannot wait here all 
day. I want to get to the opera. 

Tramp {comedy business for Tramp as he crawls tinder the 
chair a7id pretends to fx an auto). 1 don't know why vou 



14 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

didn't take a horse-car. I know how to drive them. {Gets 
up and resumes his seat?) There ! Now it is all right. Ready ? 
Let her go. Burrr ! (Pretends to run auto.) 

Woman. Oh, Thomas, don't go so fast. 

Tramp. Can't help it, mam. Burrr! Honk, honk ! Hey, 
look there, we're coming. Buzzzzzz ! Gong, gong ! See us 
go around that corner on one wheel. Whizzzzzz ! Gee ! I 
begin to think I'm getting a little buggy myself. 

Woman {leaning forward iiitently). Oh, Thomas, you 
have got the speed madness. I can see it in your eyes. 

Tramp. Well, I can't help it if I am a swift guy. It is 
the way I was brought up. Ye see, mam, I'm used to travel- 
ing on fast freights. 

\NoMK^ {still staring ahead ^. Oh, help ! Help! Thomas, 
stop, or we are lost I {Poijits.^ See, there is an embankment. 
We are going toward it. Oh, help ! Help ! 

{She catches hold of the front chair arid pulls it over, top- 
pling Tramp on the floor. She sinks back in her chair 
moani?ig.^) 

Tramp {getting up and rubbing his back). Well, I guess 
we must have hit something after all. 

Woman {between moans). Thomas, I am hurt ! Do send 
for an ambulance. 

Tramp. Send for an ambulance ? I wish I could send for 
the morgue. 

Woman. Oh, doctor, am I hurt badly? Do tell me the 
worst ; I can stand it. 

Tramp {assuming a professional air). Humm. Not very 
badly. Your face is twisted, you have got terra-del-fuego ; 
and I think the andante obligato is broken at the sic semper 
tyrannis. 

Woman. Oh, how thankful I am that it is no worse. But 
I like this hospital. It is such a clean, quiet place. What a 
sweet little baby ! Do bring the little cherub here. 

{Holds out her arms to Tramp, luho backs away.) 

Tramp. What? No, sir! No, siree! I'll be John, Thomas, 
a letter, an auto, a doctor, a hospital, a jackass ; in fact, any- 
thing in reason, but I'll be did, dad, dud, dolgorned, dill 
binged to Jude, teetotally cow kicked over by a bullrush, jig 



JUST NOTIONS 15 

slammed, gaul busted, flam flisted, twisted to thunder, if I'll be 
fbaby ! Nay, nay, Ophelia ! Just give that dice-box in your 
cranium another shake. , , , t 

Woman (rising). Ah, well, I am so glad that I am conva- 
lesceat once more Papa promised to take me to Europe, and 
confidentially, I am just dying to get to Par.s, for I am to 
finish ray musical education when I get there. 

■rRj^gazinsatherhwildered) Vmm. Umm. {Aside.) 

Oh, but she has certainly got 'em awful '• 

Woman (going to table). So just pack the trunks, and be 
quick about it, for we have only four months to get ready. 

Tramp Say, if we are going to stay here that long, I m 

^ToM^ %t:Z:.r. and put in everything. Here is my 
comb and brush, and manicure set, and sixteen suits, and two 

doz'r pa^J of stockings, and f-' -<» g'-^^^^P^j/'X 
{She begins flinging all the smal articles off the table^ Thy 
mav be anything but what she ts mentioning. Tramp drops 
TZautdgets down on his hands and knees to S^ her them 
together.) Hurry, William. The steamer is leavmg. I hear 

""tkam^C.//// on hands and knees). Oh, no-that is only 

^"w:mT.^ '^oS'and sitting do.n on his back, as he kneels^ 
on floor). Ah, is it not delightful to be on the heavmg bosom 

"^l^MT^Yes, but I say, you hain't on the heaving bosom 
of the ocean. You're on the heaving back of yo^rs tru y. 
Woman. I do so love to recline on deck and watch the sea- 

^"TRAMp''''well, recline on deck if you want to, but for 

heaven sake get off my spine. j j • ^ 

WomIn. Come, Reginald. Come sit with me and admire 

the boundless blue. .^ „rM- cc an 

Tramp. My dear madam, I hired as a nurse, not as an 

acrobat. I can't sit on myself. 

Woman What? You refuse? I fear you do not love me 
any more. I shall commit suicide if you desert me. 

Tramp. Oh, don't you worry. I'm not likely to do that. 
You've got me cinched all right, all right. . 

Wo'ifN ( rising from his back\ At last we have amved 

^IZ^ {risinf stiffly to his feet and rubhng hts back). 
Well, I'm glad we had a record-breaking trip. 



l6 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Woman. Now, papa dear, I am going to leave you for a 
while. I want to see Professor Del Monte and make arrange- 
ments for my singing lessons. 

Tramp {still rubbing his back). Go ahead. Don't mind 
me. 1 wonder where 1 can get any Omega Oil? 

Woman {crossing stage atid returni7ig a?id facing Tramv). 
Good-morning, Professor. 

Tramp {staggering back). What? Back again, and on a 
new tack. Say, you beat any lightning change artist I ever 
saw. 

Woman. I have come all the way from America to see you. 

Tramp (imitating a mincing FreucJiman'). Ah, you do me — 
vat you call heem — ze grrrrand honor. 

Woman. I want you to try my voice. 

Tramp. That is unnecessary. PU convict it without trial. 

Woman. Shall I begin ? 

Tramp. Oh, certainly. Go ahead and be happy; Pni 
hardened. (Woman sings the scales in a screechy voice.) 
Good ! Excellent ! I think that in about ninety-nine years 
you'll get a diploma. 

Woman. I am so glad you think I have a voice. 

Tramp. Yes, but you had better not take my word for it. 
Pm an awful jollier. 

Woman. Shall we try a duet? 

Tramp. What ? Oh, yes, let us do-et. 

Woman {turning to table). What shall it be? Ah, here is 
the Gobble Duet. 

Tramp. The Gobble Duet? Oh, I can't sing that. 

Woman. Why not? 

Tramp. 1 haven't eaten turkey in two years. 

Woman. Please try. For my sake, Pippo. 

{Puts her arms about his neck and coaxes him.) 

Tramp {resignedly). All right. Anything to keep the baby 
quiet. 

{They be^in the Gobble Duet from '' The Mascotte,'' and 
sing the first part as comedy. As the first part ends, they 
should ?nake exit and quick change ; returning as Pippo 
and Bettine, and sing the last part properly.) 

CURTAIN 



After Many Years 

A Strong Dramatic Sketch 



CHARACTERS 



Mrs. Madaline Marsh, a young widow. 

Robert Warren, an old lover. 

Maid. 

Policeman, 

SCENE.— ^/^r/^r. 

Enter Mrs. M. at back at rise of curtain. She is attired in a 
rich evening gown and cloak. She goes slowly to table 
down stage and rings a bell. 

E7iter Maid, r. 

Maid. Why, madam, is it you ? You are home very early, 
are you not? 

Mrs. M. Yes, Marie, I am early. But I grew tired, and 
excused myself. (Maid takes off her cloak.) You may go 
now. (Maid exits r. Mrs. M. seats herself at table and 
rests her head on her hand.^ Yes, I am tired. Oh, so tired 
of the whole empty show. I long to get away, far away from 
the gaudy, frivolous whirl of society, and — rest. {Pause.') 
Rest? But where shall I find it? Will the quiet of some 
country village restore me? Would even the solitude of the 
cloister bring me peace, contentment, happiness? (SJiakes her 
head sadly.) No. Once I sinned against the promptings of 
my heart, and I must still bear the punishment. Once I was 
offered all that I sought — but I shut the door. And now? 
Oh, heaven — life is one long, dreary waste. Behind, before 
me, it stretches like some grim, foreboding desert. There is 
no light, no hope. Not even in flight. {Pause.) No, I must 
keep in the giddy throng in order to seek forgetfulness. I 

17 



1 8 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

must laugh and dance, and play with the empty baubles to the 
end. (Sighs.) How long, oh. Lord, how long? 

(^She buries her face in her ha?ids on the table. Pause.') 

Enter Rob. at door i?i back. Music pp. He is dressed in rough 
clothing, wears a mask and has a small cap pulled over his 
eyes. He peers cautiously about, then comes slotcly down 
stage. Discovers Mrs. M. and utters a cry. She raises 
her head, discovers him, and springs to her feet, clutching 
at the table for support. 

Rob. Stop ! Not a word. Do you understand ? 

{Levels a pistol at her.) 

Mrs. M. (^gasping). A robber ! 

{She attempts to run off l., but he catches her roughly by the 
wrist and presses the pistol to her head.) 

Rob. Curse you, do you want to die? 

Mrs. M. (^fearfully). No, no, no. Have pity. 

Rob. Be quiet, then, and sit down. 

{Flings her roughly into a chair dozvn L.) 

Mrs. M. You have come here for money, jewels? Here. 

{She nervously strips rings from her fingers, necklace from 
her neck, and tiara from her hair, and offers them to 
him.) 

Rob. Bah, I hate them. {Flings them back in her lap.) 

Mrs. M. {surprised). You — you do not want them ? 

Rob. No — I — I {Glances about the room.) 

Mrs. M. But surely you have come here to rob me. You 
knew I was rich. 

Rob. Rich? {Turns on her fiercely.) Rich? If you do 
not want to madden me beyond recall, don't — don't talk about 
the rich. I hate them ! 

Mrs. M. {interested). What have they ever done to you? 

Rob. What have they ever done to me? What have 
they ever done to me? {Laughs harshly.) It was one 
of them that made me what I am to-day : an outcast 
and bitter foe to humanity. He stole from me first. Stole the 
only thing I ever really coveted. The only true wealth I ever 



AFTER MANY YEARS I9 

possessed. The love of a woman. With everything at his 
command, he chose to filch from me the only thing I could 
call my own. God ! how I hate him. How I hate them all. 

Mrs. M. {sympathetically). Oh, sir, I — I — do not under- 
stand. 

Rob. Of course you don't. But what matters that? You 
would not appreciate it if you did. Like the rest of your kind, 
you would only gloat over my loss. 

Mrs. M. No, no. Tell me. Perhaps I can 

Rob. {interrupting roughly). What? Restore my pos- 
sessions? {Laughs.) You fool. Listen. Ten years ago I 
was a rising young lawyer. I had brains and ambition. 
Money ? Pah ! I had none of that ; but I possessed the love 
of a woman, which was worth more to me than all the gold of 
Ophir. It was the loadstone of my life; the incentive that 
would have spurred me on to victory ; the key that would have 
unlocked the doors of the world. {Pauses afid passes his hand 
across his eyes.) But there came a day when he appeared. 
He with his cynical, smiling face; he with his gold. {Speaks 
fiercely.) He dangled before her eyes a shimmering shower 
of wealth. He smiled upon her ; he uttered tender words ; he 
dazzled her with his gold ; and lured her on like some phantom 
will-o'-the-wisp, until — until — {laughing harshly) until he won 
her; and I — I — was imdone. Shorn of life, love, happiness, 
ambition, everything. {Pause, and he glances at her.) Isn't 
it a joke ? A huge, ghastly joke. One of the kind that you — 
a rich woman like you, ought to appreciate. {Pause. Mrs. 
M. has her head bowed.) Well? Curse you, why don't you 
laugh ? 

Mrs. M. {raising her face which shows sig?is of grief). 
No, no, that is not a joke. It is a tragedy. 

Rob. a — a ? Yes, you are right. A tragedy. And 

it has left its impress upon me. Since that time, I have lived 
with but one all-consuming desire: — revenge. Not for mere 
wealth — I scorn it — but to repay them in kind. To take — not 
their money — but that which they covet more than their wealth 
— whatever that maybe. Keep your gold, your jewels; they 
are trash to me. What I want, what I will have, is that thing 
which is most precious to you. {Gla?ices about.) Ah, have 
you a child ? 

Mrs. M. {faintly). No. 

Rob. You mean it? Don't try to play with me. 

Mrs. M. {looking him in the face). I swear it. 



20 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Rob. Very well. If you had had one, I should have taken 
it. To most mothers, their offspring is their greatest prize. 
(Zr<? looks carefully about the room, and then back to her. 
Suddenly discovers a small locket which s.he wears about her 
fteck, and which she did not take off when she offered him tJie 
rest of her jewelry. ) Ah, I will take that — locket. 

Mrs. M. {f'ising and catching at the locket). No, no, no ! 
Anything but that. 

Rob. Give it to me. {They struggle. He wrenches it 
from her neck. She sinks in the chair, sobbing convulsively. 
He glances at the locket in his hand, 7vith a harsJi laugh.) 1 
thought this would be the thing I most wanted — from you. 
Some fool's picture, eh? [He opens it, then starts; and 
springing foivard, catches her by the shoulder. ) Speak, woman ! 
Where did you get this — this picture ? 

Mrs. M. {looking zip, and speaking pleadingly). Oh, sir, 
take anything, everything — only give me that. 

Rob. {ignoring her words and speaking roughly). Answer 
me, do you hear } Where did you get that picture ? 

Mrs. M. Why — why — from tlie one whose face you see 
there. 

Rob. You lie ! That is Robert Warren. Warren as he 
looked ten years ago, before the serpent entered his Eden; 
before his life was blasted. 

Mrs. M. {starting and rising). Yes — yes — but — but how 
do you know all this ? 

Rob. How do I know? How do I know? {Laughs.) Be- 
cause I am he. {Tears mask from his face.) 

Mrs. M. {staggering back). You — you — Robert Warren? 

Rob. Yes, and this is my picture, as I looked then. 

Mrs. M. Robert ! Oh, heavens ! I 

{Raises her hands to her face.) 

Rob. {starting at the name). Eh? {He takes her hands 
from her face and gazes long and earnestly into her eyes,) 
Yes, I am Robert Warren. And you — you — are Madaline. 

Mrs. M. (slowly bowing her head and answering faintly). 
Yes. 

Rob. Good heavens ! What have I done ? What have I 
done ? 

{He staggers to c, sinks in chair and buries his face in his 
hafids.) 



AFTER MANY YEARS 21 

Mrs. M. (crossifig to htm and layuig a hand ofi his shoul- 
der^. Robert. {Pause.) Robert. 

Rob. {glancing up with a haggard face). What? 

Mrs. M. How you have changed. 

Rob. {slowly nodding his head). Yes, MadaUne. The 
blow that was struck at me ten years ago left its stamp on my 
face and in my heart ; Hke another mark of Cain. I — I — have 
suffered the torments of Hades since that day. 

Mrs. M. {speaking softly and tenderly). I, too, have suf- 
fered. Suffered for the mistake I made in those days of my 
thoughtless youth. You told the truth. I was lured away 
by the splendors of wealth, but oh, how bitterly have I atoned 
for my sin. A married life of eight years, which in its daily 
liorrors seemed to be each hour an age. You have suffered, 
you say ? Well, look at me, and be satisfied with your revenge. 

Rob. {startifig to his feet). No, no. Against any one 
but you — Madaline. You say your life has been a torment ? 
{Angrily.) Where is the brute who has dared to 

Mrs. M. Hush, Robert. 

Rob. But your husband ? He who stole you from me, and 
then made you suffer ? Where is he ? 

{Starts R., but she detains him.) 

Mrs. M. {soberly). He is dead. 

Rob. Dead ! 

Mrs. M. Yes. Two years ago. 

Rob. {speaking with animation as of neia hope). Then — 
then — you are free. Free once more ? 

Mrs. M. Yes. 

Rob. Oh, Madaline— — {Pauses, then flings out his 
arms with a despairing gesture.) No, no, it is too late. Too 
late — now. 

Mrs. M. Why too late, Robert? 

Rob. What have I to offer you now? A wasted life: a 
blackened reputation. No, no. Let me go. Here, keep your 
memory of the past. 

{Offers her the locket, but she takes his hand.) 

Mrs. M. {tefiderly). Robert, I am free, as you have said, 
and I still love you. 

Rob. Don't. Don't tempt me, Madaline. 

Mrs. M. {repeating tenderly). I love you, Robert. 



22 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Rob. {after a pause). And you can say that, knowing what 
I have been ? What — what — I am ? 

Mrs. M. Yes. Was it not my fault? Am I not equally 
to blame? All your crime is upon my head. I am the guilty 
party, the real culprit. {Pause.) Robert, 1 love you. 

Rob. [pausing with bowed head ; then raising his eyes to 
hers, and speaking brokenly). Can it be that after what 
seemed an endless purgatory I am at last to catch a glimpse 
of heaven ? 

Mrs. M. {softly). If you but will. 

Rob. {rapturously). Madaline ! {He is about to put his 
arms about her, when a noise is heard off stage. He pauses 
and starts back, whispering hoarsely.) Hark ! What was that ? 

Mrs. M. {going to door at back and glancing off , then re- 
turning quickly). It is an officer. 

Rob. An officer ? And on my track. [He catches up the 
pistol which he has laid on the table.) But he shall not take 
me. I will not go. It is his life — or mine. 

Mrs. M. No, no, Robert. {Appealingly.) 

Rob. But I tell you I will not. In this the hour of my 
regeneration to be taken back to a dungeon ? No, I will not. 
I'll die first. 

Mrs. M. No, no. Quick ! Get behind me. 

Rob. What ? Hide behind a woman's skirts ? Oh, Mada- 
line, do you take me for a coward ? 

Mrs. M. {in an agony). No, no, you are brave. But 

Rob. Then let me fight it out. 

Mrs. M. {throivi?ig her arms about his neck). Robert, 
don't you love me any longer? 

Rob. {clasping her to hiniself). Can you doubt it? 

Mrs. M. Then do as I ask, and I will save you — without 
dishonor. Hush. {He slowly crouches behind her, with his 
pistol clutched tightly in his hand, ready for use. Enter 
Policeman, at door at back. Mrs. M. draws herself up and 
speaks sternly.) To what am 1 indebted for this intrusion into 
the privacy of my house, officer? 

Policeman {touching his cap). Your pardon, madam, but 
I saw a suspicious looking person enter this house by a lower 
window, some time ago, and I have reason to believe that he 
is a burglar. With your permission, I should like to search 
the house. 

Mrs. M. {haughtily). There is no one in this house who 
has not a perfect right to be here. 



# 



AFTER MANY YEARS 23 



Policeman. But, madam 



Mrs. M. {interrupting). When I require the services of 
the police, I will advise you. {Coldly.') You may go. {As 
he hesitates.') I said — you may go. 
\ Policeman {after a pause). Very well, madam. 

{He slowly exits.) 

^' Rob. {catching her hand, which he presses to his lips). Oh, 

Madaline, my life, my love, my all. You have indeed saved 
me. Perhaps from murder. 
( Mrs. M. {laying her other hand on his bowed head and 

speaking tenderly). Robert, as gold is refined by heat, so 
have our souls been tried by fire. The dross has all been 
, burned. We have both passed through the valley of the 
shadow, and after many years there is happiness. 
Rob. {looking up from his knees). Happiness? 
Mrs. M. Yes, happiness. And peace, and joy and — and 
■ — love. 

Rob. God bless you. 

{Bows his head, on which her hand still rests.) 



CURTAIN 



A Lesson in Love 

Comedy Sketch for One Male and 
One Female 



CHARACTERS 

Allen Wright, a ranch otvner. 
Maud Reynolds, an Eastern girL 

SCENE. — On Wright's ranch in the Southwest. May be 
played either as an interior or exterior. In either case, 
there should be a Western flavor to the surroundings. 

Enter Al., at back, at rise. He carries a letter in his hand. 

Al. {calling off). All right, Judson, you can go ahead 
with the branding of that last lot of mavericks. Eh? Well, 
hold on a minute then. {Opens letter and glances quickly over 
it. Then calls off.) No, I won't ride down until later. 
Good luck. ( Waves his hat off, then comes down stage, stops 
and reads letter.) "Dear Mr. Wright: — Aunt Mary and I 
are at the Grandview Hotel, and I am going to run over to 
your ranch to-day, for old time's sake. {He pauses a?id sighs, 
then cofitinues.) Have a real nice cowboy handy. You know 
I dote on them. Until we meet, I am your friend, Maud 
Reynolds." (Sighs again as he slowly folds the letter.) My 
friend, eh ? Ah, there was a time when 1 fondly thought that 
she would be more to me than just *' my friend." But the fates 
decided otherwise. She was a romantic girl, with all a school- 
girl's notions about sentiment and love ; while I — was a lawyer. 
{Shrugs his shoulders.) But it went hard. So hard, that I 
gave up my practice, and came out here to bury myself. And 
now I am to meet her again. {Rapturously.) Oh, Maud ! 
{Pause.) Oh, what is the use? She still dotes on cowboys. 
{Laughs.) Well, if she could only see a few of the specimens 
that I have on my ranch, it might {Stops abruptly, as 

25 



26 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

if struck by mi idea, and claps his hands together.^ By Jove ! 
A happy thought. I'll do it. Disguise myself, and give her 
a sample of what a real nice cowboy is like. It will be a lark, 

and who knows? Perhaps Yes, I'll do it. 

[Exit R., hurriedly. 

{Laugh heard off stage. Enter Maud at back. She is ajt 
up-to-date Eastern girl, dressed in the fashion.') 

Maud (speakifig off). Oh, no, it is all right. I will find 
him if he is here. We are old friends, you know. (^Coines 
down stage looking about.) So this is where Allen lives, is it? 
How charming. How unconventional. How — -how — roman- 
tic. Oh, if he had only waited until after he became a ranch 
owner to ask me to be his wife, I would have accepted him 
gladly. For — I — do — love — him. The dear fellow. But I 
simply couldn't stand being the wife of a musty old lawyer. No. 
(^Pause.) I wonder if he has changed ? I wonder if he — he — 
still thinks — still — cares — for me? But there doesn't seem to 
be any one about. Perhaps that woman was right when she 
told me he had gone to brand some cattle. He surely must 
have gotten my letter. Suppose he has, and has deliberately 
gone off, rather than see me ? (Shows anger and disappoi?it- 
ment.) I wonder who that woman is, anyway? And what 
right has she to be here ? She seemed quite at home, too. 
Good heavens ! Perhaps she is his wife. (Sinks o?t sofa, or 
rustic seat, a?id clasps her hafids.) Oh, no, no. I cannot think 
of that. I cannot think of that. 

(^Buries her face in her hajids.) 

Enter Al., r. He is disguised as a cowboy, has false mous- 
tache, etc. , and carries a pistol. 

Al. (shouting loudly). Whoop ! Whoop ! {Fires pistol 
in air. Maud springs to her feet with a cry.) Eh? (Pre- 
tends to discover her.) Oh, I beg yer pardon, miss. I didn't 
know the gov'nor had company. Sit down and be sociable. 
Be you the bunch o' ruffles that he said wus comin' over here 
to-day ? 

Maud (coldly). I am Miss Reynolds, and I 

Al. Then it's O. K. Ye wrote to him, didn't ye? 

Maud. Why — why — yes. 

Al. And ye told him to trot out a nice likely cowboy fur 
ye, didn't ye? 



A LESSON IN LOVE 27 

Maud {staggering back). Why — why 

Al. Oh, come now, don't git leery. Ye know ye did ; 
'cause 1 saw the letter, and the gov'nor has sent me in to do 
the honors until he gits back. Sit down. (^As she still hesi- 
tates he repeats gruffly.') Sit down ! (Maud sinks on sofa or 
bench.') Now ye look more ter home. {He sits beside her and 
she moves as far away as she can.) Have a drink? 

{Pulls out a whiskey flask and offers it to her.) 

Maud {horror-struck). Heavens ! No. 

Al. Think it hain't good stuff, hey ? Why, say, girlie, a 
good swig o' this would crimp all the false hair on yer head ; 
and two swigs would make ye feel like gittin' on the table and 
doin' a Salome. (Maud attempts to rise, but he commands.) 
Sit down ! {She sinks back.) Did ye ever do a Salome? 

Maud {angrily). No. 

Al. Gee ! Well, ye needn't take my head off. No, I 
reckon ye' re too fat to do a real up to the minute fling. {Pause.) 
Well, what shall we talk about? The gov'nor told me to en- 
tertain ye. Perhaps ye'd like to see me do a little shootin' ? 
Say, ye git over thar. {He catches her by the shoulder and 
roughly stands her dow?t l. He then crosses to r., and faces 
her.) Now stand still. {Pulls his pistol.) 

Maud. Mercy ! What are you going to do ? 

Al. I'll bet ye a quid o' terbacker agin a wad o' chewin' 
gum that I kin knock yer earrings right out o' yer ears, with- 
out touchin* the skin. {Raises gun.) One, two 

Maud. No, no; stop. {Frightened.) 

Al. Why ? 

Maud. Suppose you should miss me? 

Al. I never missed in my life. If I don't hit the ear- 
rings 



Maud. Yes — yes 

Al. I'll surely hit somewhere on yer face. 

Maud. Oh, heavens ! 

Al. {again raising gu ft). One, two 

Maud {in an ago?iy of fear). No, no, don't ! You might 
kill me. 

Al. {exasperated). Oli, hell! 

Maud {shocked). Sir ! 

Al. If ye go on like this, ye'll have me swearin' the first 
thing ye know. 

Maud. But if you should kill me ? 



28 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Al. Wdl, don't ye s'pose we'd give ye as good a funeral as 
ye'd git out East ? VVe hain't heathern out here. {^Raises gun.) 
One, two 

Maud. Wait ! Stop ! I don't want to see your ability as 
a shot. I will take your word for it. Come, tell me something 
about Mr. Wright. 

Al. The gov'nor, eh ? Well, all right. But ye're losin' a 
chance to see the finest shootin' in the West. {Both sit on sofa 
or bench?) Now wot d'ye wa.nt to know? 

Maud. Tell — me — is — he— married ? 

Al. {aside). By Jove, I do believe she loves me yet. 
{Aloud.) Married? Well, I just reckon yes. Not much 
though. Only three so far, I think. 

Maud {aghast). Three ! 

Al. Yep. It would have been four, but the last one didn't 
take. 

Maud. Horrors ! 

Al. Oh, thar hain't nuthin* horrors about that. Why, I 
got six myself, and I wouldn't mind addin' another to the bunch 
— that is if she wus a swell looker — like you. (Edges closer.) 
Say, you said ye just doted on cowboys. How would ye like 
to buckle up with me, hey ? 

Maud (disgustedly). You? 

Al. Yep. I know I hain't quite as swell as the gov'nor- 

Maud. No, 1 guess not. Mr. Wright is — — 

Al. Is the real goods, eh ? Yep, 1 know. But I don't be- 
lieve you'd stand any sorter chance with him. Ye see, he's all 
fur business. He don't "dote on cowboys," except when 
they're in the saddle, a-roundin' up a herd o' cattle. He wants 
a woman who hain't buggy over the latest fashions, and afraid 
to soil her fingers with a little honest work. He wants — well, 
just a good, true wife, who will love him always, and keep 
house, and mind the children. That's his kind, and 1 sorter 
reckon that you don't belong to that breed. (Maud bo7us her 
head sadly.) So ye'd better hitch up with me. I'm a dead 
game sport; same's you. I don't care whether school keeps 
or not. So I reckon we were made fur each other. Well, wot 
d'ye say ? Shell 1 kiss ye, jest to seal the bargain ? 

{Attempts to ejnbrace her, but she roughly pushes him aivay.) 

Maud {a?igrily). Go away, you brute. I hate you. I 
hate all of your kind. I — I — {sobbingly) I — am — going — 
home. 



A LESSON IN LOVE 29 

Al. Wait. Don't go yet. {As Maud s^ar^s up stage.') 
Ye hain't seen the gov'nor yit, ye know, and it may be yer last 
chance. 

Maud (^pausing abruptly). My last chance ? What — what 
do you mean ? 

Al. Why, ye see, he's about down and out with the '' con." 

Maud. You — you — mean consumption ? 

Al. Yep. Ye see he loved some gal in the East, before 
he come out here. I reckon she must 'a' been a high-flyer like 
you, who couldn't appreciate a real man like he was. Anyway, 
she threw him down, and he cum out here to bury himselfo 
{Pause.) And I reckon he'll succeed. 

Maud {impulsively). No, no, no. Don't say that. 

Al. Truth's truth, hain't it? She treated him worse than 
a cayote; and now he's jest wearin' himself away. {Pause.) 
Do ye want to see him ? 

Maud {staggering down stage). Yes, yes. I'll — I'll wait. 

Al. Ail right, I'll call him, if he's anywhere around. {At 
R. he speaks aside.) I believe she cares for me after all. 

\_Exit hurriedly, R. 

{Note. — He leaves his pistol on the table as he goes.) 

Maud {sinking on sofa or bench). Oh, Allen, Allen ; how 
cruel I have been. Cruel to myself as well as you. I did not 
know my own heart then ; I was only a foolish, thoughtless 
girl. But I loved you then. And I — I — yes, I might as well 
confess it to myself — I love him yet. {Pause.) And now he 
is married — a polygamist even. Oh, the thought is terrible ! 
Dying of consumption, too. And it is all — all my fault. Oh, 
if I could but make some reparation to him. If I might only 
do something for him. Something to prove to him that I do 
love him. {A pause, then she speaks resolutely.) Yes, I will. 
I will. In spite of that woman out there. Yes, in spite of all 
his wives. 

{Note. — This speech rnust be taken slowly in order to give 
Al. time to remove his disguise.) 

Enter Al., r. He is in proper costume. She does not notice 
him until he speaks. 

Al. {cordially, but not affectionately). Miss Reynolds ? 
Maud {discovering him and springing to her feet with a 



30 



HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 



glad cry). Oh, Allen, Allen. {Pauses as if realizing.') I— 
mean — Mr. Wright. 

Al. {crossing to her side). I am real glad to see you. It 
is so seldom that one meets an Easterner out here. Won't 
you be sealed ? (Maud siiiks on sofa and stares at him. 
Al. faces her c.) I received your note this morning, and 
tried to comply with your request. How did you like my 
specimen of the real, simon pure cowboy ? 

Maud. Don't. Don't speak of him to me. He was un- 
bearable. 

Al. {smiling). But he was a very good example, I assure 
you; and you "dote on cowboys," you know. 

Maud {appealingly). Please don't be hard on me, Allen. 
I — I — know I have been foolish. Nay, worse : criminal, to 
treat you as I did. And now — now you are so ill. 

Al. {affecting surprise'). Ill ? 

Maud. Yes. Dying of consumption. And a Mormon. 

Al. {laughing). Indeed? And who told you all that? 

Maud. Why — why — that — that — man. 

Al. He must have been trying to fool you, knowing you 
to be a tenderfoot. 

Maud {looking tip with reneived hope). Well, I don't care 
— if — if — it was not so. 

Al. Of course not. 

Maud. And you are not sick? 

Al. Never felt better in my life. 

Maud. And you haven't got three wives? 

Al. Three wives? Well, I guess not. Why, I haven't 
got one — yet. 

Maud {starting). Yet? 

Al. {turning away and speaking aside). Oh, I do believe 
she loves me after all. But I will put her to one more test. 

MkVD {risitig). Yet? You said '' Yet." Do you mean 

Al. {facing her and speaking seriously). I mean that 
when you told me — back in old New York — that you did not 
care for me — that I was too practical and commonplace — I 
came out here to try and forget. 

Maud {i?iterested). Yes, yes. 

Al. I did not succeed. But — {Pauses.) 

Maud. Yes, yes, go on. But — but what? 

Al. Why, I soon met a woman who became very much 
attached to me. (Maud exhibits her anger and jealousy.) 
What had I to live for? Nothing. But I thought I might as 



A LESSON IN LOVE 3 1 

well make some one happy, even if I could not be happy 
myself. 

Maud. Oh, Allen ! 

Al. But perhaps after we are married I shall learn to 
care for her. 

Maud {imploringly). No, no. You must not. You shall 
not. I, too, love you, Allen ; and I have the prior right. 

Al. {quietly'). You did have — once. But you refused the 
offer. Now 

Maud. Yes, now? 

Al. Now another woman holds the option. 

Maud {angrily). Is it that — that — dark-skinned thing that 
I saw as I came in ? 

Al. 1 shouldn't wonder. But you must not talk of her 
like that. 

Maud. Why not ? 

Al. She is a Mexican. 

Maud {angrily). I don't care if she is a Hottentot. 

Al. And very jealous of me. 

Maud. So am I. 

Al. Hush ! If she knew you were here now, and saying 
such things to me, she would surely kill you. 

Maud. You think so ? 

Al. I am sure of it. 

Maud. Is she a good shot with the pistol ? 

Al. {smiling). An excellent shot. (Maud deliberately 
crosses to table, picks up the pistol and starts up stage. Al. , 
alarmed. '^j Good heavens, Maud ! What are you going to do? 

Maud {with detennifiatiofi). \ am going out to find that 
Mexican woman. 

Al. {frightened). And kill her? 

Maud. Oh, no; I'll give her a fair chance for her life. 
You say she is a good shot ? So am I. We will fight it out. 

Al. {admiringly). For me ? 

Maud. Yes, for you, Allen. {Impulsively.') I want you, 
and I'm going to have you, or die in the attempt. 

{She starts once more up stage ^ but he catches her and puts 
an arm about her waist.) 

Al. My own Maud. So you are willing to risk your life 
for me, are you ? 

Maud [glancifig about in alarm). Yes, I am. But do be 
careful. I don't want that Mexican to get the drop on me. 



32 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Al. {uii/ghi;ig). Come. Sit down. 1 have a confession to 
make. {He leads her down to sofa or bench, a?id sits beside 
her.) Do you know wlio your gallant cowboy really was? 

Maud. Why — why — he — was 

Al. Myself. 

Maud. You ? 

Al. Yes. 1 wanted to prove to you just how foolish your 
romantic notions really were. 

Maud. Well, you succeeded. 

Al. And as for tliat Mexican woman 

Maud. Well, what of her? Surely that was not you also, 
was it? 

Al. Oh, no. But she is the wife of my overseer. She is 
insanely jealous, as I have said, but it is over her own greaser 
husband — not me. 

Maud. And you are entirely free? 

Al. {smiling quizzically). Well, no, not entirely. I beheve 
there is a girl in the East who claims me by prior right. 

Maud. Indeed I do, and I shall foreclose on my claim at 
once. It is a dangerous experiment to try and teach a woman 
a lesson in love, but you have succeeded admirably. 

Al. And you will be my wife after all ? 

Maud. As soon as we can find a minister. {Rises.) I do 
so "dote on cowboys," you know. 

( They may close with a duet. ) 



CURTAIN 



The Baby 



A Humorous Sketch for One Male and 
One Female 



CHARACTERS 

Jack Marshall. 

Mrs. Marshall, his wife. 



SCENE. — Dining-room at the Marshalls\ Table set for tivo. 
A pistol in a drawer of a sideboard^ up stage. Lively 
music for rise of curtain. 

Enter Mrs. M. at rise. She is dressed in ordinary house 
gown, and carries a man's coat and a work-basket. 

Mrs. M. Here it is, nearly time for Jack to be getting 
home from the office, and I have not mended that coat of his 
that I promised to. But what with all the shopping and social 
calls that I had to make, I really forgot it. However, I can 
hm-ry with it, and he will never know that I left it until the last 
moment. (^Sits down stage, and has busifiess of mefiding a rip 
in the coat. She can introduce a song here, while she works.') 
There 1 It is done. I wonder what he has in his pockets ? 
The usual assortment of odds and ends, I suppose. (^Looks 
through the pockets and takes various articles from them.) 
Yes, a box partly filled with cigarettes; a match-safe; two 
keys, toothpicks, a pencil and — a letter? Now I wonder what 
that can be? Some musty legal matter, I presume. I just 

hate law; it is so dry and uninteresting. And then {She 

has drawn letter from envelope during her speech, and now 
starts and clutching the letter, stares at it.) Eh ? What is 
this ? {Reads.) " My darling Jack : — Please come back and 
I will forgive you everything. Yes, even your mad infatuation 
for that hateful blonde. Baby cries for you continually ; and 
so does your loving wife, Vivian." (Fause.) Oh, what can 

33 



34 



HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 



it mean ? " My darling Jack." That is his name. And ** that 
hateful blonde" ; that must be me. Oh, the brute, the mon- 
ster, the wretch ! Married to another woman, whom he de- 
serts to marry me. Mother told me she never would trust a 
lawyer. And the baby, too. Oh, this is terrible. I am sure 
I shall faint. (Pause.) No, I won't. I'll go home to mother. 

(^Rises hastily and exits r., dropping letter on the floor as she 
goes.) 

Enter Jack at back. He has a baby in long clothes, which he 
carries awkwardly. He glances anxiously about, then 
comes slowly doivn stage. 

Jack. Well, if this isn't a nice predicament for a young 
married man to be in. Saddled with a baby, and one that I 
don't even know the parents of. And the most galling part of 
the whole thing is, to think that I, Jack Marshall, lawyer, man 
of the world, and old New Yorker that I am, should be taken 
in by the baby game. I meet a pretty woman in the street, and 
she asks me to hold her youngster a minute while she arranges 
her hair, which the wind had tossed about. Like a blamed fool 
1 fall for it and take the blasted kid, just to oblige a lady in 
distress ; when presto ! she is gone in the crowd, and I am left 
standing there with this wee bit of unknown humanity in my 
arms. Oh, Jack Marshall, you are a double riveted idiot. 
You deserve to be kicked. Well, perhaps I shall get what I 
deserve when Alice finds it out. By Jove ! I hadn't thought 
of her. I won't dare let her see it. I would never hear the 
end of it. She would call me seventeen kinds of a fool, and 
perhaps get a commission to inquire into my sanity. Or 

else {Starts.) Good heavens, suppose she should jump 

to the conclusion that it was mine ? You never can trust a 
woman. Lord ! the very thought sends cold shivers down my 
back. No, no, I cannot let her see it. I'll just hide it some- 
where, get her out of the house on some pretext, and then send 
it to the police station. Let me see. {Glances about.) Ah, 
this will do very nicely. {Puts the baby under a sofa up stage.) 
Burr ! It gives me a chill, even in July, to think of the possi- 
bilities if that bit of flesh should suddenly set up a howl. 
{Notices letter on the floor aiid picks it up.) Hello, a letter. 
Oh, it is that little note that my client, Mrs. Lloyd, wanted me 
to send to her husband. And I shoved it in my office coat 
and forgot all about it. Oh, well, I saw him personally and 



THE BABY 35 

effected a reconciliation ; and they are now living happily to- 
gether again; so I guess it is all right. {Tosses letter on the 
table ; listens.) Ah, she is coming. Now to fake up some ex- 
cuse for getting her out of the house. (^Enter Mrs. M. She 
is dressed for traveling, and carries a valise.') Hello, Alice. 
Going out ? Good. 

Mrs. M. (icily). Sir ! 

Jack. Oh — ere — no, I didn't mean that exactly, but 

Mrs. M. Well? 

Jack (stammering, as she regards him closely). Why — 
why— What is the matter, anyway? Going out — and 
with a grip? (Goes toward her in alarm at her fnanner.) 

Mrs. M. Don't touch me, you monster. Don't you dare 
to touch me. 

Jack (aside). I wonder if she is getting paresis? (Aloud.) 
1 say, Alice dear, are you ill ? 

Mrs. M. Go away. Go away, 1 tell you. 

Jack. But where are you going? Really, I am getting 
alarmed. 

Mrs. M. (sternly). I am going home. 

Jack (aghast). Home ! 

Mrs. M. Yes, home. Do you suppose I would live with 
you a single moment, after I had discovered your base duplicity ? 

Jack (staggered). My duplicity? I'm stuck. Say, is this 
a new game? Or is it a puzzle? If it is, I give it up. What 
is the answer ? 

Mrs. M. (scornfully). Oh, it is not a new game — for you. 
Marrying women, and then deserting them. 

Jack. W-h-a-t ? 

Mrs. M. And the baby, too. 

Jack. Baby ! 

(Starts violently, and casts an apprehe^isive glance toivard 
the sofa.) 

Mrs. M. Ah, you start. I knew it was true. 

Jack. True ? True ? What is true ? For heaven's sake, 
Alice, explain. 

Mrs. M. {zvith a ivave of her hand toward the table). That 
letter. 

Jack. That letter? (Laughs, relieved.) Oh, I see it all 
now. 

Mrs. M. You do, do you? Oh, you vile wretch. Is it 



36 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

not enough that you are guilty of such a crime, without laugh- 
ing over it, as if it were a joke ? 

Jack. Now see here, my dear. Listen. You read that let- 
ter, which you found in the pocket of my office coat, and 
thought it belonged to me, eh ? 

Mrs. M. Well, and why shouldn't I? Isn't your name 
Jack ; and am I not a blonde ? 

Jack. Very true. But do you suppose that I am the only 
Jack in the world, or you the only blonde? 

Mrs. M. {Jiesiiatitigly). Ummmm — well — no, but — — 

Jack. Listen. I had a client by the name of Mrs. Lloyd, 
whose husband took it into his foolish head to leave her, and 
run off with some blonde chorus girl. She came to me for ad- 
vice. As she admitted that she still loved him, I advised her 
to write that letter, begging him to return, before beginning 
suit for divorce. She agreed to my suggestion, wrote that let- 
ter, and left it with me to mail. I slipped it in my pocket, 
and forgot all about it. That is the whole story in a nutshell. 

Mrs. M. And is all this true? 

Jack. It is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth. 

Mrs. M. And you never had another wife? 

Jack. Of course not. 

Mrs. M. Nor a baby ? 

Jack. Eh ? Baby ? I guess not. Baby, indeed ? I wish 
every mother's son of them was into the middle of the- 

{Baby cries. Note. — This can be arranged by having some 
one give the sound off stage.') 

Mrs. M. {i?iterrnpting hi)?i). Hark, what was that ? 

Jack (aside). Confound it, it is that blasted kid. {Aland.) 
Why, I didn't hear anything. {Baby cries, and ]ack speaks 
louder a?id louder, trying to droivn its cries, until he is a/most 
shouting.) But come, Alice, this has upset you. You need 
some fresh air. Do take a stroll until you are 

Mrs. M. {again interruptitig). For mercy sake, you need 

not yell at me so. I am not deaf, and I am sure I heard 

(Baby cries.) Yes, there it is again. 

Jack. It must be the cat. 

Mrs. M. Then I will find it and take it out with me. 

Jack. Oh, I wouldn't bother. I'll attend to it. Go out. 
I really fear you will faint if you remain here. 



THE BABY 37 

Mrs. M. I always liked dumb animals. I shall surely 
faint if I do not find it. 

Jack [aside). And I shall surely faint if she does. 

( They have comedy business of trying to find the baby, duriiig 
which Jack, pretending to aid her, continually gets her 
away from tJie fatal spot. At last,frofn the other side of 
the room, she notices the bundle under the sofa, and goes 
toward it. ) 

Mrs. M. Ah, there it is, under the sofa. 

Jack (^placing himself in front of her). Don't go near it, 
Alice. 1 am sure, from the sound, that it must be mad. And 
if you should touch it, it might bark at you, and then you 
would have the mumps — ere — the measles — ere — I mean the 
smallpox {Aside.) Oh, hang it all, what am I saying? 

{She pushes him aside, and going to sofa, draws the baby 
out.) 

Mrs. M. {facing him with baby in her arms). So. This 
is the cat, is it ? Now, sir, what have you got to say ? 

Jack. Do be quiet a moment, Alice, and I will tell you how 
it happened. 

Mrs. M. Will you, indeed ? Well, go ahead. Let me hear 
what you have to say. 

Jack. On my way home from the office I met a woman who 
asked me to hold her infant a moment while she arranged her 
hair. I took it, and away she went, leaving the confounded 
kid in my arms. It is an old game, and I was a fool to be 
taken in. 

Mrs. M. Why didn't you turn it over to the police? 

Jack. I really did not think of it then. I was so mortified, 
and in such fear lest some of my friends should see me, that I 
made a break for home. But I will take it now. 

{Goes tozvard her, but she waves him back.) 

Mrs. M. Go back. You may desert your lawful wife, but 
you shall not desert your child. 

Jack. My child? Hang it all, what do yon mean ? 

Mrs. M. Oh, you need not try to play the innocent any 
longer. It will not avail you. I see it all now. That letter 
was for you, after all. And this is your child. You tried to 
blind me with your soft words. But it will not work. Your 



38 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

sins have at last found you out. Oh, you wretch, you 
villain ! 

{In her anger she shakes the baby at him, and it begins to 
cry lustily.^ 

Jack (holding out his hands appealingly). Can't I make 
you see? 

Mrs. M. Yes, take your child. {She thrusts the baby into 
his arms, and he starts up stage. ~) Stop ! Where are you 
going ? 

Jack. To the police station, of course. 

Mrs. M. {getting pistol from drawer of sideboard). Never ! 
While I live, you shall add no more to your already long list 
of crimes. 

Jack {ivalking distractedly up and down stage with the cry- 
ing baby). Hang it all. I'm not going to keep it up all night. 
I wouldn't do it, even if it was my own. 

Mrs. M. Wouldn't you? {Laughs scornfully.) Oh, I do 
enjoy this. Good-bye, Mr. Marshall. 1 wish you much joy 
with your Vivian and your squalling baby. That " hateful 
blonde " will leave you forever. But I warn you, if you attempt 
to take it to the police I shall have you arrested. 

[^Exits with her valise. 

Jack. Well, I am certainly in for it now. Oh, you little 
wretch, to cause me all this trouble. {Baby cries.) Shut up ! 
It won't. Perhaps it is hungry. I'll try it. {lie has comic 
busi?iess of trying to feed the baby with food from the table. ) 
Confound it all, this won't do. It can't eat. It has no teeth. 
Blamed funny baby to be born without teeth. Perhaps, though, 
they have been pulled ; its mouth does look red, as if it wore 
false ones. (Baby cries.) Oh, dear, if I could only kill it, 
choke it, smother it, or drown it. I feel equal to homicide, 
infanticide, or any other cide. Shut up ! Shut up ! Shut up ! 

{May introduce more comic business as baby continues to cry.) 

Enter Mrs. M.., at back. 

Mrs. M. {laughing). For goodness' sake. Jack, what are 
you doing ? 

Jack. Doing? Why, I am trying to shut off the vocal 
pyrotechnics of this human roman candle. 

Mrs. M. Give it to me. The mother is here. {She takes 
the baby and hands it off at back, speaking off.) Oh, no, 



THE BABY 39 

niadatn, you are mistaken. My husband was not trying to 
abduct it. 

Jack. Trying to abduct it ? Well, I guess not. Piiew ! 

(^Fans Jiimself.') 

Mrs. M. {coming down to his side). Oh, Jack, can you 
ever forgive me for having doubted you? 

Jack. Forgive you ? Of course I will. Come, let us for- 
get the whole unpleasant incident. 

{They may exit here, or close with a duet.) 



CURTAIN 



The Baby 

A Comic Sketch, Arranged for Two Males 



CHARACTERS 

Bob Wallace, a young man. 
Thomas Wallace, his elderly uncle. 

SCENE. — The bachelor apartmetits of the two men. 

Enter Tom at l., at rise. He wears dressing-gowti, and 
carries a letter. 

Tom. Well, well, well. I always knew that Bob was a 
pretty wild sort of boy, but I really did not think him capable 
of this. {Reads.) ''My darling Bob: — Please come back, 
and all will be forgiven. Baby cries for you, and so does your 
loving wife, Vivian." Oh, the young villain ! He has the 
audacity to marry without my consent, and then desert his 
wife. All under my very nose. And the baby, too. Then I 
am a great-uncle, and he never told me ; me, who has been his 
guide and guardian all these years. Oh, the inhuman rascal ! 
I'll tell him what 1 think of him when he comes in, and don't 
you forget it. \_Exit, r. 

Enter Bob, at door in back. He carries a baby in long clothes 
which he handles awkwardly. 

Bob (cofnifig slowly down stage). Now, this is what I call 
a mighty fine predicament for a single man to be in. Harnessed 
to a blooming kid that I don't even know the parents of. And 
the most galling part of it is to think that I, Bob Wallace, 
man of the world and old New Yorker that I am, should 
be taken in by a game as old as this one. I meet a pretty 
woman in the park, and she asks me to hold her baby while 
she gets it a drink. Just like some country lout, I swallow the 
bait, hook, line and sinker, and take the kid, just to oblige 

41 



42 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

beauty in distress. Of course she doesn't come back, and 
there you are. Oh, Bob Wallace, you fool, you idiot ! You 
deserve lo get thrashed. Well, perhaps 1 will get what I de- 
serve when the old man hears of it. By Jove ! I won't dare 
let him see it. I would never hear the last of it. It would be 
a sweet morsel for him to tell at the club. Ye gods, think of 
all the fellows pointing me out and calling me ''papa " ! No, 
sir ; perish the thought. I'll not let him see it. I'll just hide 
it somewhere until he goes out for his afternoon constitutional, 
and then I'll take it to the police station. Let me see; what 
shall I do with it? (^Glances about?) The very place. {Puts 
baby ujider sofa up stage,) Now, may kind heaven keep that 
kid in the land of dreams for the next half hour. 

Enter Tom, r. 

Tom {discovering Bob). So you are here at last, are you? 

Bob. Yes, I am here. I only went for my usual stroll in 
the park. 

Tom. You villain ! 

Bob {surprised). Eh? 

Tom. You wretch ! 

Bob. E— h ? 

Tom. You double-dyed scoundrel ! 

Bob. E— h ? 

Tom. You inhuman brute ! Burrrrrrr ! 

Bob. E— h ? 

Tom. To think that my nephew, my well beloved nephew, 
would be guilty of such a thing. 

Bob {aside). By Jove, the old fellow is going crazy. 
{Aloud.) I say, uncle, what is the row? 

Tom. What is the row ? What is the row ? What is tlie 
row ? You — ^^you dare ask me that ? You, who have cun- 
ningly won a poor girl's heart, married her, and then deserted 
her. Oh, it is terrible. And the baby, too. 

Bob {starting and speaking aside). The baby, too. I 
wonder what he can mean ? Surely he did not see me come 
in. {Aloud.) Now, see here, uncle. You are slightly twisted 
somewhere. I've warned you several times that you were 
keeping too late hours for a man of your years. You need a 
brandy and soda ; let me get you one. 

Tom. No, I don't need anything but an explanation of this 
letter. 



THE BABY 43 

Bob. What letter ? 

Tom. This one. {Hands Bob letter.') Do you deny that 
you received it ? 

Bob (^glancing at the letter, and laughing). Where did you 
fintl this ? 

Tom. On the table in your room. And you dare to laugh 
at it, eh ? Very funny, isn't it, to read the appeals of your 
heart-broken wife ? 

Bob. Nonsense. You are all wrong, uncle. Listen. There 
is a fellow with the same name as mine at the club. He got 
iiUo some trouble a while ago, and skipped off to Europe. 
When this letter came the steward naturally gave it to me. 

Tom {jmconvinced). Oh, very naturally — of course. 

Bob. I opened it, but saw at a glance that it did not belong 
to me. 

Tom. Oh, doesn't it? 

Bob. Of course not. You know I never had a wife, and 
what is more, don't want one. While as for babies — {ivith a 
quick glance toward the sofa) I wish the whole blooming lot 
were at the North Pole, or 

{Baby begins to cry.) 

Tom {ifiterrupting him). Hark, what was that? 

Bob. I didn't hear anything. {Baby cries and he conti fl- 
ues, speaking louder.) As I was saying — ere — as I was saying 
—I mean — to say — ere — s-a-y 

Tom. Hold on, hold on. What do you think you are? 
An auctioneer? I'm not more than a mile away, and my hear- 
ing is not affected. Besides, I am certain I heard — — {Baby 
cries.) Yes, there it is again. 

Bob. It must be the cat. 

Tom. Then I will find it. It is surely in pain. 

Bob. Oh, I wouldn't bother. It is quite time for your 
constitutional. 

Tom. My constitutional can wait. I always did like dumb 
animals. 

Bob. No, no, don't worry about it. I'll find it. 

( They have comedy business of searching for baby. At last 
the baby cries.) 

Tom {discovering baby under sofa). Ah, there it is, under 
the sofa. 



44 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Bob (pulling him away). Don't go near it, uncle. I am 
sure, by the sound, that it must be mad ; and if you should 
touch it, it might eat you up, and then you'd have smallpox — 

er — I mean mumps {Aside.) Oh, hang it all, what am 

I saying ? 

Tom (^pushing Bob aivay, a?id pulli?ig the baby from under 
sofa). Ah, so this is the cat, is it ? Now, sir, what have you 
got to say? {Sits at table with baby.) 

Bob. Wait, and I'll tell you how it happened. 

Tom. Will you? Well, let me hear just how good a story 
you can invent. 

Bob. No invention, I assure you. Just the plain, unvar- 
nished truth. I was sitting in the park this morning, when 
along comes a woman who asks me to hold her baby while she 
goes to one of the drinking fountains and gets it a drink. Like 
a fool, I took it, and of course she didn't return. It is an 
old game, and I was an ass to get taken in. 

Tom. Why didn't you turn it over to the police ? 

Bob. I really did not think of it then. I was so mortified, 
and in such mortal fear lest some of the boys should see me, 
that I made a break for home. But I'll take it now. 

( Goes toward Tom, who waves him back.) 

Tom. Go back. You may desert your wife, but you shall 
not desert your child. {Exajnines baby^s clothing.) 

Bob. My child ? Hang it all, uncle, what do you mean ? 

Tom. Oh, you need not try to play innocent any longer. 
That letter was for you, and this is your child. Witness the 
damning proof. The initials, V. W. {Holds up baby's dress.) 
What is more natural than for a mother to call her baby after 
herself? V. stands for Vivian, without a doubt. 

Bob. Admitting, of course, that it happens to be that kind 
of a baby. 

Tom. Ummmm — well, we will take that for granted. And the 
W? That stands for Wallace no matter what the sex may be. 
Oh, you villain, you deep-dyed scoundrel. {In his anger he 
accidentally hits the baby on the head. Baby begins to cry.) 
There, there, don't cry, 'ittle tootsy wootsy. Oo unkie has 
dot 00 now. 

Bob {holding out his hands). Can't I make you under- 
stand ? 

Tom. Yes, take your child. (Bob starts up stage luith 
baby.) Hold on, where are you going? 



THE BABY 45 

Bob. To the police station. 

Tom (drawitig revolver). No you don't. While your old 
uncle lives you shall add no more to your long list of crimes. 

(JBaby continues to cry, and Bob walks up and down stage. 
A song may be introduced here.') 

Bob. Hang it all. I am not going to keep this up all day. 
1 wouldn't do it, even if it was my own kid. 
Tom. Perhaps it is hungry. 

Bob. That's so. I never thought of that. Let's try it. 
Tom. I'll get something. 

(^Exiis R., and returns with large plate of food. Together 
they have comedy business of trying to force food down the 
babfs throat. It continues to cry.) 

Bob. Say, this won't do. It hasn't any teeth. 
Tom. It hasn't? Mighty funny baby to be born without 
teeth. 

Bob. Perhaps they have been pulled. 

{Baby contitiues to cry.) 

Tom {examiiiing babfs mouth). Yes, I guess they have. 
Its mouth does look as if it wore false ones. But what are you 
going to do ? We will have all the neighbors in if this keeps 
up. Shut up ! Shut up ! 

Bob. Suppose I run down-stairs and steal Mrs. Jones' nursing- 
bottle? 

Tom. All right. Go ahead. But hurry. I can't stand 
this racket very long. 

(Bob exits door in back. Tom may introduce a song or 
coniedy business of trying to quiet the baby.) 

Enter Bob luith nursing-bottle. 

Bob. Here it is. I managed to get it without any one 
seeing me. 

{They have comedy business of trying to feed the baby, which 
only cries louder.) 

Tom {at last throwing the baby in Bob's arms). This is 



46 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

too much ! Take it, choke it, smother it, drown it ; kill it 
any way you like, only for heaven's sake stop that yelling. 

(^Claps his /lands to his ears and runs from room.') 

Bob. Thank heaven ! At last he is gone. Now I can take 
this infernal kid to the police station. \Exit. 



CURTAIN 



^^ Vengeance is Mine " 

A Strong Dramatic Playlet, for Two Males 



CHARACTERS 

Father Dupri, a French monk. 
Henri, Count de Villmais, a 7ioble. 

SCENE. — Dupri' s room in an abbey. Time. — France, during 
the Reign of Terror. Costumes of the period. 

Enter Dupri at rise of curtain. 

Dupri {coming slowly down stage while speakijig). Ah, 
how lovely is nature this morning. The zephyrs, scent laden, 
rustle the leaves ; the birds carol merrily ; the very air seems 
impregnated with a holy calm. In the midst of all these signs 
of Deity, how can man allow his angry passions to master him ? 
And yet, how out of tune with this beatific harmony of nature 
is the news from Paris this morning. Everything in turmoil ; 
the fair city in the hands of a lawless mob, ruled by nothing 
but their own lusts, and bent on pillage, rapine and murder. 
Versailles in flames, the nobility in peril ; aye, even the sacred 
cloth desecrated ; and a wanton of the gutters crowned goddess 
in the great Notre Dame. The streets reek with blood, and 
above the bedlam of discordant sounds can be heard the cry 
of the innocents, sacrificed to the fury of an unthinking, un- 
heeding populace. Ah, God ! How long wilt Thou permit 
poor France to suffer? But I must try and blot out the terri- 
ble picture from my mind. (^He goes to a shelf, takes a book 
at random, and seats himself at a small table c, on which burns 
a candle before a cr7icifix.) I will read the lesson for the day. 
{Opens book and reads. ^ ''Recompense unto no man evil for 
evil. Provide things honest in the sight of all men. If it is 
possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men. 
Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place 

47 



48 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

unto wrath; for it is written: 'Vengeance is Mine, I will re- 
pay,' saith the Lord." (Pauses as if in thought.') Ah, yes, 
'tis hard to wait sometimes; but this is our assurance : the 
Lord will repay. (He is about to close the book, whe?i a curl 
of hair drops from the leaves, and he picks it up with trembling 
fingers.) What is this? A curl? Why, 'tis the one that 
Madaline gave me when I left for Prussia. (Pause.) Ten 
years ago. It does not seem so long since I kissed her blush- 
mantled cheek, and with my sabre at my side left her, to win 
glory and honor on the tented field. How well I remember 
the day. We plighted our troth and parted. I to wear the 
uniform of France's victorious hosts ; she to wait patiently for 
my coming. My coming? (Starts to his feet in excitement.) 
Yes, I returned. Returned as I had promised. But she? Ah, 
a villain, the proud and haughty Count de Villmais, like a 
serpent, had entered our Eden and stolen away our Paradise. 
Aye, stolen away the fairest flower that ever graced the world. 
(Fiercely.) Stole it ! Blighted it ! Crushed it ! Killed it ! 
How I longed to clutch the dastard's fair white throat ; to feel 
him gasp for breath ; to hear him supplicate in vain ; to clench 
until he hung a limp weight in my arms, and then hurl him 
from me dead, dead, dead ! How I longed to plunge my sabre 
into his vile heart, and watch his life blood leap forth in pur- 
suit of the blade ! (Sinks, overcome, in chair. ) But no. 
Wiser councils prevailed, and with nothing left in life I turned 
to the Church. She took me in, comforted me, healed my 
wounds. Ah, I had fondly thought so. But now — now the 
sight of that curl, the memory of my long lost love ! Oh, I 

could (Pauses abruptly, clasps his hands and faces the 

crucifix.) Oh, Thou Divine One, give me strength to forget. 
Aye, to forget and to forgive. (Buries his face in his hands 
on the table. E?iter Henrl He is dressed as a noble of the 
period, but his clothing is i?i disarray and a long cloak covers 
him. He glances about in great fear, and discovering Dupri, 
comes quickly to his side, falls o?i his knees and clasps the 
priest's hand, which hajigs at his side. Dupri, discovering 
Henri, starts to his feet.) Eh ? Why, ray poor man, who are 
you ; and what are you doing here? 

Henri (staggering to his feet). Oh, good father, save me. 
Save me from the mob who would take my life. Everywhere 
they are seeking the lives of those who boast of noble blood. I 
am of that class, and they too seek my life. They have markeci 
me for execution. But I have escaped them, and am come 



" VENGEANCE IS MINE ' 49 

here to seek shelter. Here, under the wing of the Church. 
Surely they will respect God's house ? 

DuPRi. Alas, I fear not. In their unreasoning fury, clergy 
and laity are alike their common victims. 

Henri. Still, you will not desert me ? Oh, father, don't— 
don't turn me adrift among those ravening wolves. The mob 
is all about. To leave here would be but to cast myself into 
their hands. No, I will not. Rather than fall into the fingers 
of those hellish fiends, I will 

(^He draws a dagger from his belt and attempts to stab him- 
self. DuPRi grasps his upraised hand. ) 

DuPRi. Stop, man ! What would you do ? Know you not 
that it is written: "Thou shalt not kill; " even thyself? Be 
calm and I will aid you. 

{Takes the dagger from Henri and lays it on table.) 

Henri. Thanks, thanks, good father. 

DuPRi. But be not too sanguine. It is as you say. The 
mob is all about us. They may track you here at any moment. 

Henri {in fear). And then ? 

DupRi. Then? Such is their fury, that God's house, 
God's minister, aye, God's holy image, would not restrain 
their fiendishness. 

Henri {in a?t agony). And then, then? What then? 

DuPRi {calmly). Then we can only die together. (Henri 
bows his head as if in despair.) Come, my poor man. Let 
us hope for the best ; but let us not forget the danger, and be 
prepared for the worst. 

Henri {with a shudder). I — I — cannot think of death. 

DuPRi {calmly). 'Tis hard, I know. But we must all face 
it some time. 

Henri. But I have sinned. 

DuPRi. So have we all. 'Tis the common heritage of 
prince and pauper alike. Do not despair. Look up. Behold 
the Cross. The Image that speaks to us of salvation and abso- 
lution. That beckons us onward and upward. That bids the 
weary sinner repent, the penitent one rejoice. 

Henri (gla?icing up at the crucifix^ then falling on his knees 
infrontofDvv-Ri). Father, hear my confession. I was born 
in the fair valley of the Giselle. There, nurtured by a fond 
father and indulgent mother, surrounded by friends kind and 
good, I grew to man's estate. Then I went to Paris. Ah, 



50 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

that was my undoing. Would that I had always remained on 
the vineyard-clad hills of Montagnic i But I came to Paris ; 
Paris, so fair and yet so false ; Paris, which, like the Lorelei of 
the Rhine, whispers its siren song, and lures the poor traveler 
to destruction. Thus did Paris lure me on, and in the mad 
gaiety of the city I forgot the sweet days of my innocent child- 
hood ; forgot the old father whose pride I was. Forgot the 
fond mother whose prayers were ever raised in behalf of her 
wayward son. Forgot friends, manhood, honor, everything, 
and plunged headlong into the maelstrom of vice, thinking 
nothing but to satisfy the cravings of a sinful heart, caring 
naught if those cravings were but satisfied. 

DuPRi {soothingly). Poor man. Yours is not an uncom- 
mon life-story. The fair city holds many human wrecks, who 
were once proud, honest men. 

Henri. But listen, good father. I was more despicable 
than they. Not content to sink myself into the black depths 
of infamy and despair, I dragged another with me — a woman— 
as pure as the snow that falls from out the shaken mantle of 
winter. I saw her innocence, and lusted for it. Like another 
Mephistopheles, I wooed her. For a while she resisted ; but 
ah, the devil triumphed at last, and I held her in my arms. 
(^Pause.) Then, when the prize was won, I cared for it no 
longer, and 

DupRi (who has slowly changed to excited interest). Yes, 
yes, man. Go on. 

Henri. I deserted her. After luring her to the turbulent 
waters, I left her to sink. After dragging her to the precipice, 
I left her to fall. Oh, Madaline 

DuPKi {excitedly). Who? Who? Speak, man; what 
name did you utter? 

Henri. The name of the poor innocent whom I lured to 
ruin and death : Madaline LaRue. 

Dupri {gripping his shoulder fiercely). And you — you — 
are 

Henri. Henri, Count de Villmais. 

Dupri. My God ! And after all these years an avenging 
Deity has placed you in my hands. You fiend ! 

(Henri, in fear, attempts to rise to his feet, hut Dupri 
catches him by the throat and forces htm back to his 
knees.) 

Henri. Help! Help! Oh, father, who are you ? 



"vengeance is mine" 51 

DuPRl. Who am 1 ? Who am I ? Look upon me. Once 
Robert Morrill, captain of His Majesty's guards. Once happy, 
honored, ambitious; secure in a pure woman's love. Now, 
with ambition dead, my heart torn, happiness fled — and you 
— you — are the serpent. 

Henri. Oh, father, have mercy. 

DuPRi. Mercy? Mercy, dog? You talk of mercy? 'Twere 
an insult to the Almighty to show you mercy. No, no. Jus- 
tice has at last found you out ; and I — I, foul wretch, am com- 
missioned to mete to you your punishment. 

Henri. Oh, spare me, spare me, and I will make amends. 

DuPRi {speakijig with loathing). Cease your blasphemies. 
Can you once more place the mantle of purity upon the cheek 
of my long lost love ? Can you give back the life you hurled 
to despair and destruction ? Can you absolve the soul that 
now perchance rests in torments ? Aye, can you recall the 
ten bitter years that have sapped the springs of life from my 
sturdy manhood, and left me but a withered branch ? No, no, 
no. Make amends ? Thou fool. Say your last prayer, repeat 
your last Paternoster. 

{^He catches up the dagger, and holds it threateningly over 
the cozuering Henri.) 

Henri {ineekly). The Bible then. (Dupri hands him the 
open book on the table, and, still kfieeling, he begins to read.) 
*' Recompense to no man evil for evil. Provide things honest 
in the sight of all men. If it is possible, as much as lieth in 
you, live peaceably with all men. Dearly beloved, avenge 
not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath, for it is 
written : 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,' saith the Lord." 

(Zr<? slowly closes the book, kisses it, and offers it to Dupri. 
Dupri does not see him. His face depicts the struggle 
going on in his breast.) 

Henri [still clutching the book, he bows his head). Now I 
am ready. Strike. {A pause ; the blow does not fall, and 
he glances up at Dupri /;/ surprise and reneived hope. ) What ? 
You do not strike? Ah, pity, pity, it is not dead. You will 
spare me ? 

Dupri (slozvly lowering the dagger, while speaking as if to 
himself). " Vengeance is Mine, 1 will repay," saith the Lord. 
(Pause.) Yes, I will spare you. 



52 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Henkl May heaven bless you. ( Clasps Dupri's hand.') 
But hark! What is that? The raob is coming, and we are 
lost. (^Springs to his feet.) 

DuPRi {calmly). Perhaps not. Have courage. {He hur- 
riedly takes off his cassock, and wraps it around Henrl) 
There is a secluded path at the back of the abbey. It leads 
through the cemetery and to the hills beyond. From there you 
can easily cross the borders. Be brave and cautious, and you 
will escape. 

Henri. But you? My good friend, my saviour? You- 

DuPRi. I will stay and hold them while you fly. 

Henri. Oh, father, how can I thank you for 

DuPRi. Plush. They are coming. There is no time for 
thanks now. Go ! {He hastily pushes Henri off at a side 
door.) He is gone. Gone. He who despoiled me, blighted 
my hopes, and blasted my life. Ah, well, God will repay. 
(Noise heard outside as of 7Jiob beating on the doors.) Stop ! 
What would you do? Beware the vengeance of heaven. 

Voice {outside). We seek that noble rogue, the Count de 
Villmais. 

DuPRi {after a pause). He is not here. 

Voice {outside). But we saw him come here. Open, or 
we will batter down the doors. 

{Noise of mob battering down door's and shots being fired.) 

DuPRi. Never. Back, back, I say. Do not pollute God's 

holy temple with your unhallowed feet. Back, I say, or I 

{A shot is fired. Dupri clutches at his breast, from which 
blood flows.) Cowards ! {He reels and falls down c.) 
Thank God, the Count is safely away by this time. And 1 ? 
I gave my life for his. How dark it grows. I cannot see. 
And yet — yes, there is a light. {Looks upward.) It beckons 
me on. And there — oh, joy, oh, happiness complete — there is 
Madaline. Madaline — my life, my love, my all. Yes, loved 
one, I am coming. Peace at last. {A pause.) And venge- 
ance ? Truly vengeance belongs to God, 

{Feebly makes the sign of the cross, and dies as mob enters.) 



CURTAIN 



Dr. Dobbs' Assistant 

A Comic Sketch for Six Males 

(It can be played by two males, one taking the part of Travel 

Stayned, and the other playing Dr. Dobbs and 

all the patients.) 



CHARACTERS 

Travel Stayned, a tramp. 

Dr. Dobbs. 

Hiram Onderdunk, a hayseed, 

Ikey, a Jew. 

Old Maid. 

Hans Stouterbach, a Dutclmian. 

SCENE.— (9#^^^/ Dr. Dobbs. 

Enter Dobbs, at rise of curtain^ to lively 7ttusic. 

Dobbs (^speaking off). All right, all right. I'll be right 
down. John, bring the auto around to the door at once. 
{Comes down stage.) There it is again. A hurry call, right 
in the middle of my office hours. Patient dying, so they say. 
I'll wager that it is only a case of big head, or perhaps a bit of 
dyspepsia. But then. Banker Stone is too good a man to lose 
from my lists. If I don't humor him, some other doctor would. 
But it is annoying, to say the least. If I only had some one to 
look after my office practice while I was out. {Goes to table 
and begins filling a small satchel with bottles. Knock heard 
off stage.) Come in. Another patient, I suppose. 

Enter Trav. He is a typical tramp in dress and manner. 

Trav. Good-morning. 

Dobbs {without looking up). Good-morning; what can I 
do for you ? 

Trav. Good- morning. 

53 



54 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

DoBBS {ivithout looking ?//). Good-morning, good-morning. 
What is the matter? 

Trav. Good-morning. 

DoBBS {iarniiig angrily). Good- morning. I said good- 
morning. 

Trav. So did I. 

DoBBS. Well, what do you want ? What ails you ? 

Trav. Well, I feel holler here {indicating his stoviacJi), and 
I'm empty here {slapping his pockei')^ and — and — well, I guess 
that is about all. 

DoBBS. Oh, I see. You are hungry and have no money, 
eh? 

Trav. Gee, but you are a smart doctor, to guess what is 
the matter so quick. 

UoBBS {aside). I have an idea. {Aloud.) Do you know 
anything about medicines? 

Trav. Well, I know that castor oil is good for burns, and 
Pritcher cries for children's Astoria, Long Island, and — and — 
let's see if there is anything else I know. 

{Scratches his head thoughtfully.) 

DoBBS. Well, I'll give you a chance. I need an assistant 
to look after my office calls while I am out. Now I will tell 
you how to act as briefly as I can. When a patient comes in, 
you ask him to tell you his symptoms. Then you look at his 
tongue, feel his pulse, time it, and take his temperature. Next 
you diagnose 

Trav. Dye his nose? 

DoBBS. No, no. You diagnose his case. If you think his 
lungs are affected, try the stethoscope. 

Trav. I see; you look into his lungs with a telescope. 

DoBBS. No, no; stethoscope. If he is of sedentary 
habits 



Trav. Yes, if he has got the dairy habit 

DoBBS. Sedentary, sedentary. Perhaps a little massage 
will do him good. 

Trav. Bologna ? 

DoBBS. Bologna ? What do you mean ? 

Trav. Didn't you say to give him a little sausage? 

DoBBS. No, no. A massage, to stimulate his nerves. 

Trav. Stimulate him ? Oh, yes, now I know. You mean 
treat him to a glass of whiskey. Say, Doc, I'm one of those 
sed-in-the-dary fellers, myself. 



DR. DOBBS ASSISTANT 55 

DOBBS. Do be quiet and listen. If you suspect poison, use 
an emetic. 

Trav. Now what is the use of using an attic ? For him to 
die in ? 

DoBBS. No, no. An emetic, or the stomach-pump. Now, 
here are some remedies {indicating bottles on table)^ which you 
will find efficacious in alleviating 

Trav. Hey ? 

DoBBS. I say here are some remedies which you will find 
efficacious in alleviating pain. (Speaks off.) All right, John. 
I'm coming. (^To Tray.) I'll have to leave you for a little 
while. Now do the best you can. 

[Catches ifp satchel and exits hurriedly.) 

Trav. Go ahead, Doc, don't mind me. I'll live through 
it, even if the patients don't. Well, say (looking about roovi), 
hain't dis the best ever? I certainly fell into a soft snap dis 
time. But I must live up to my position. (Takes off his ow7i 
ragged coat a7id puts on a smoking-jacket.') Dis will look bet- 
ter. Now, doctor, have a cigar? Tanks, I don't care if I 
do. (Takes a cigar from box on table and lights it.) And 
now a nip of whiskey, doctor? Well, really, I don't indulge as 
a rule, but of course if you insist 

{Pours and drinks from a bottle oti table. Then sits and puts 
his feet on table.) 

Enter Hiram at back. He is dressed as a farmer. 

Hiram. Good-morning. Is the doctor in ? 

Trav. No — ere — I mean yes. Of course he is. Can't you 
see me, or are you blind ? What is the matter with you ? 

Hiram. I don't know what is the matter. That is why I 
cum here. 

Trav. Ah, now that is very bright of you. I wonder I 
didn't guess it myself. Well, sit down and let me see your 
tongue. (Hiram sits and Trav,, pretendi/ig to look at his 
tongue, pulls from his mouth about a foot of red flanJiel, cut 
like a tongue.) Horrible, horrible. I'll have to scrape it. 

(JTe fakes a large file fro?n the table and pretends to scrape 
the to7igue.) 

Hiram. Oh, murder, is that all? 

Trav. All ? Why, my dear feller, I've only just com- 



56 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

menced. I must take your temperature. {Pretends to shove a 
large wooden thermo?neter down Hiram's throat,^ Hully gee ! 
Six hundred and seventy-eight in the shade. Say, where were 
you last night ? On the Bowery ? 

Hiram. Why, yes. How did you guess it ? 

Trav. Brains, my dear sir, brains. Now let me feel your 
pulse. ( Takes a small alarm clock from table. As he does 
so it begins to ring.) Shut up 1 Shut up ! Shut up ! 

Hiram. Hey? 

Trav. Oh, I am talking to this clock. It makes so much 
noise that I can't hear your pulse. Great Scott, what a pulse ! 

Hiram. Oh, doctor, I hain't so very bad off, are 1? Gosh 
all hemlock, if I wus ter die right here 

Trav. Now, don't you worry about that. I'll keep you 
alive until you get outside. (Hiram groans. Trav. sits at 
table and writes.) Let me see. This is a very bad case of 
rinktum jinktum. But we will see what can be done for 
you. Take Tenderloinous — one night. Boweryitus — one night. 
Champagne — one quart. Gold — one brick. Mix thoroughly, 
take and then go home to Squashville and make your will. 
{Rises.) There you are, my dear sir. 

{Hands paper to Hiram.) 

Hiram. Oh, thankee, doctor. How much ? 

Trav. Ummmmm, well. You look so much like my dear 
dead brother that I'll only charge you five dollars. 

Hiram. Oh, thankee. {Gives money.) Good-bye, doctor. 
If ye ever cum ter Pollyopolis, jest ye drap in the fust red 
house arter passin' VVortendyke's mill, on the road ter Griggs- 
by's Corners. Thet's my house, and me and the old woman 
and the gals will give ye a hearty welcome. Good-bye. 

l^Exit. 

Trav, Good-bye. Five cold bones. This is as easy as 
being a political boss. I wonder if the doctor will want any 
of this money? No, of course not. Perish the thought. I was 
hired to look after his office patients, so I will also look after 
his office patients' money. Ah, doctor, have a cigar. {Takes 
another cigar from box and lights it.) And now how about a 
little stimulant, doctor? Well, really I could not think of in- 
dulging again so soon — ere — but — of course — if you insist 

{Takes another drink of whiskey, then seats himself at table 
as before.) Now, I wonder who will be the next? Come 
along, he, she or it, I am ready for you. 



DR. DOBBS' ASSISTANT 57 

Eftter Ikey, a typical Jew make-up. 

Ikey. Good-mornin', doctor. 

Trav. Hello, Ikey. 

Ikey. Oh, vat an intelligent doctor. How did you know 
that my name vas Ikey ? 

Trav. Brains, my dear sir, brains. But what is the matter 
with you ? 

Ikey. Oh, but I haf sich a pain in my side. I tink I haf 
got appen dictus. 

Trav. All right, we'll look you over. I'll take your tem- 
perature. And now your pulse. {He takes Ikey's watch 
from his pocket to time pulse, and then puts it in his own 
pocket?) Now, your tongue. You say you have a pain? 
Where is it ? 

Ikey. Here. {Points to his side.) 

Trav. Yes, yes. A bad case. Your appen-de-sizzers has 
got to come out. 

Ikey {in alarm). Oh, vill it hurt? 

Trav. Not a bit. Come, up you go. {He lifts Ikey on 
table.) Will you have gas? 

Ikey. Oooooo. Does it cost any more ? 

Trav. Sure. A dollar a thousand feet. It will take about 
ten thousand for you, I guess. 

Ikey. Ten dollars? Den I von't haf it. 

Trav. Just as you say. It's all the same to me. 

{He takes a large pair of shears from table.) 

Ikey. Oh, let me up. I can't stand it. 

Trav. Well, lay still then. Nobody is asking you to stand 
it. {He jams Ikey's hat over his eyes, and cuts off the pocket 
of his trousers with the shears.) There, now, don't you feel 
better ? 

Ikey (^getting slowly off table). Yas, I guess so. But vat 
is der charge ? 

{Is reaching for his pocket, when Trav. stops him.) 

Trav. Not a cent to you, my dear sir. Not a cent. Wait for 
a prescription, and then you can go home. {Sits arid writes.) 

Ikey {rubbing his ha?ids in glee). Oh, vat a nice man. 
Such an intelligent doctor. Not a cent fur the operation. 

Trav. (writing). " Eat five pounds of motzas daily, and 
keep away from fires." There. 



58 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Ikey. Oh, you good man. You fine doctor. 

Trav. That's all right, my dear sir. Here is your pre- 
scription. You see, I am in this business for my health. {^He 
pushes Ikey off and retur?is dowfi stage.) Well, say — I'd 
rather be a doctor than — than — well, even old John D. Let 
me see. First patient, five dollars. Second patient — {^count- 
ing money from Ikey's pocket) fifteen dollars and three cents. 
I wonder what he had that three cents for? To pay me, no 
doubt. Oh, well, I won't worry about that. Now, if only a 
few more will drop in before the doctor gels back, I'll be a 
millionaire. I wonder how long he has been gone? (^Takes 
out Ikey's watch.) Well, if I didn't forget to give Ikey back 
his watch ! Oh, well, I won't worry about that. (^Laughs.') 
I wonder what he will say when he gets home and finds that I 
have amputated his pocketbook? Oh, well, I won't worry 
about that. (^At table.) Ah, my dear doctor, have a cigar. 
Why, certainly. And now just a nip of that which intoxicates 
but also inebriates. {Sa^ne business as before with cigar and 
whiskey.) No, no, I really couldn't think of indulging again. 
Still — of course, if you insist. {Sits.) Now we are ready for 
the next one. {A pause.) Surely my good luck isn't going to 
desert me so soon. {At door, looking off .) Ah, no, I thought 
not. And hully gee, it's a woman. 

Enter Old Maid. 

Old Maid. Good-morning, sir. Is this the doctor? 

Trav. Yes, madam. 

Old Maid. Oh, you naughty man. I am not a madam — 
ere — that is, not yet. 

Trav. Oh, you hain't a madam yet, eh? 

Old Maid. No — but — te-he — I'm willing to be. 

Trav. {running quickly to cale?idar ha?iging on wall and 
gla?icing at it\ speaking aside). Thank heavens this i::n't 
leap year. (^Aloud.) But now, my dear lady, what can 1 do 
for you ? 

Old Maid {aside). He called me dear. Oh, the lovely 
man. {Aloud.) Why, sir, I — I — feel sick. 

Trav. Where ? 

Old Maid. I hardly know. 

Trav. Let me see your teeth. {He opens her mouth.) 
Old age, I guess. 

Olj) Maw {indignantly). Sir! 

Trav. Yes, you ought to have died twenty years ago. 



DR. DOBBS' ASSISTANT 59 

Old Maid. What ! Before I was born ? 

Trav. {aside). Before she was born. Oh, that is a good 
one. But I suppose I might as well get a little money out of 
her. {Aloud.) Hold on, let me feel your pulse. Twenty- 
nine. Now your temperature. Hully gee, it's down to zero. 

Old Maid {aside). Oh, isn't he just too lovely for any- 
thing ! {Aloud.) Can you do anything for me, dear doctor? 

Trav. Oh, yes, your case is easy. {Sits and writes.) 
*' Catch one man, and chain him up so he can't get away." 
There you are. Five dollars, please. 

Old Maid. Thank you, dear doctor. I would willingly 
pay twice as much if you can only cure me. 

Trav. {rising). Well, you can make it ten dollars then. 

Old Maid {giving money). Good-morning, dear doctor. 
I will call again. 

Trav. Good-morning, good-morning. {Bozus her off stage.) 
I hope she kicks the bucket before she comes back here. Now, 
wouldn't she freeze ye? I'll bet that thermometer has got ice 
on it. Oh, well, I won't worry about that. I've got thirty 
dollars, three cents and a gold watch. That isn't so bad. 
Why, it is better than picking pockets. More refined and 
legal, too. It is almost as good as being a meat packer. Ah, 
dear doctor, have a cigar. How well you know that I cannot 
refuse the weed. And now, doctor, I'm going to press a little 
stimulant on you. What? Never, never. My constitution 
would not stand it. Still — if you will just make it a toast to 

my future good fortune Well, that is worth toasting — so 

if you insist {Same business with cigar and whiskey as 

before.) I guess my time is almost up. I wMsh he was going 
to be gone all day. If he wus, I'd buy the Standard Oil Com- 
pany or the Steel Trust by night. {Listens.) Ah, that must 
be him coming now. {Looks off.) No, it is another patient. 
Hurrah, more good luck. 

Enter Hans. He is very stout. 

Hans. Good-mornin' I don't know. 

Trav. You don't, eh ? 

Hans. How you vas alreatty ? 

Trav. Yes, I'm all ready. What is the matter with you? 

Hans. I'm too fat, ain'd it? 

Trav. That's wot you are. 

Hans. I vant sometings to reductions de vait. 



60 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Trav. Umiiimm. Have you tried the coal dealers ? They 
know how to reduce the weight. 

Hans. No, I didn't try dose. 

Trav. Well, let me see your tongue. Now your pulse. 
{Takes Hans' s watch, and transfers it to his own pocket.) 
Yes, you are a corporosity. The first thing you know the 
Sherman Anti-Trust will be after you. You need your corpo- 
ration reduced. You had better see Ping Pong Morgan. He's 
good at reducing corporations. But let me see. Ah, 1 have 
it. I'll pump you out. 

Hans. Ach, mein Gott ! 

Trav. Yes, yes, got to do it. The only thing that will 
save you. {He throws Hans on floor, gets a large hand pump, 
and sitting astride Hans, pretends to put the tube in his mouth 
and work the handle.') There, do you feel better? 

Hans. I feel vorse. 

Trav. (sa7ne busifiess). Feel better now ? 

Hans. No; vorse, vorse. I'm getting pigger. 

Trav. Well, we'll try it again. (Same business. Hans 
explodes.) HuUy Gee, what have I done now? {Gets up.) 
Well, he wanted to be thinner, and I guess he got what he 
wanted. Five dollars, please. {Pause.) Ten dollars, please. 
{Pause.) Fifteen dollars, please. {Pause.) He must be 
dead. Twenty dollars, please. Say, are you dead ? {Pause.) 
He is, sure enough. Twenty-five dollars, please. Fifty dol- 
lars, please. {He takes Ylkiis' ?> pocketbook ajid ope?is it.) Sixty 
dollars here. Well, he is dead, so I might as well keep the 
change. {He drags Hans off stage and returns.) Now it 
was too bad that I killed him. But it's only what doctors are 
doing every day, so I won't worry about that. Still it sorter 
jars on a feller's nerves until he gets used to it. Hark ! I'll 
bet that is the doctor coming now. It won't do for me to be 
seen here after what has happened. So I guess I'll light out. 
{To audience.) But before I go, I would just like to say that 
if there is any doctor in the audience who is in need of an as- 
sistant, I shall be most happy to serve him. 

CURTAIN 

{Note. — The hloivijig tip ^/ Hans is easily achieved by cofi- 
necting the pump with the tube of a rubber balloon that is 
concealed beneath his loose waistcoat, and inflating during 
dialogue, as indicated, to the bzir sting point.) 



For Sake of a Thousand 

A Comedy Sketch for Two Males and 
One Female 



CHARACTERS 

Harry Hale, afi artist. 

Mrs. Hale, his wife. 

Jack Douglas, afrie?id of Hale. 

SCENE. — Apartmefit of the Hales. Not very elaborately 
furnished. Breakfast, rather meagre, set on table for i7V0. 
Easel with half -finished painting on it, tipR. Stand up l., 
with glasses. 

Enter Mrs. H., a young matron, at rise. She is dressed i?i a 
plain morning gown or wrapper. Can introduce a song. 
Then she goes to door at r. , and knocks. 

Mrs. H. Come, come, Harry. You lazy fellow. Are you 
going to get up to-day, or do you expect to have your breakfast 
served in bed ? 

Hale {outside). I'm coming, my dear. I'm coming. 

Efiters from r. He has on a dressing-gown. 

Mrs. H. Still half asleep. I do believe you could sleep 
past doomsday. 

Hale. If I could only sleep past rent day, I'd be satisfied. 
What have we got for breakfast ? 

Mrs. H. Well, here is some Oat-wheat-a to begin on. 

Hale. Oat what a? 

Mrs. H. No, Oatwheata. 

Hale. What is that ? 

Mrs. H. A bran new breakfast food. 

Hale {sniffing at table). A bran new breakfast food, eh? 
You mean a new bran breakfast food. It looks like bran. If 
it isn't sawdust. What ever possessed you to get that stuff? 

6i 



62 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Mrs. H. I didn't buy it. It is a sample package. 

Hale. Sample package, eh ? What in thunder — 

Mrs. H. Now, Harry, don't get angry. You know we are 
poor 

Hale. Yes, I am painfully well aware of the fact. I have 
the unpleasant truth thrust upon me every day. 

Mrs. H. And when one is poor 

Hale. One ought to be satisfied with sawdust, eh ? (^Kisses 
her.) Yes, yes, 1 know it. There, there, now don't mind 
me, my dear. I am an old bear, 1 know. {Sifs at table.) 

Mrs. H. {also seated). Well — ere — no, you are not eld. 
But here are two letters, just arrived in the morning mail. I 
am sure they must contain some good news. Perhaps they are 
orders. 

Hale {takifig up letters'). Orders? Huh! Why, it has 
been so long since I got an order for a picture that I've forgot- 
ten what one looks like. Well, here is one letter that isn't an 
order. 

Mrs. H. No? 

Hale. No. It is from Aunt Martha. 

Mrs. H. Aunt Martha? Who is she? 

Hale. My only near relative. A spinster, with a barrel 
of money, and no one on whom to lavish her gold — save yours 
truly. 

Mrs. H. {delighted). Oh, how lovely. 

Hale. Ummm, well, no doubt it will be, some day. That 
is, if she ever takes it into her head to die; which, however, 
doesn't seem likely. She has the most obstinately strong con- 
stitution I ever saw. 

Mrs. H. Don't you suppose she would help us if we asked 
her? 

Hale. Never. I know her only too well from past expe- 
rience. She would call me a beggar, and in all probability, 
leave her wealth to some charity that isn't as deserving as I am. 
No, we can only live in hope that some day she will decide to 
shuffle off this mortal coil. In the meantime, there is no use 
in wasting time reading her effusions. I know them by heart. 
My dear nephew — I am well — hope you are — trust you find 
painting successful — keep at it, dear boy, and some day you 
will be famous. Oh, yes, I know her style. Have read such 
rot a hundred times. Bah ! 

{Tosses the letter, u?iopened, on the table.) 



FOR SAKE OF A THOUSAND 63 

Mrs. H. Well, the other one may be better. That is from 
Boston. 

Hale. From Boston? {Opens other letter. ) I wonder 
who it can be from? {Gia/ices at letter.^ Thunder and 
Mars ! 

Mrs. H. {anxiously'). What is the matter now ? 

Hale. Matter? Everything is the matter. This letter is 
fiom Jack Douglas. And he says he is coming to visit me. 

Mrs. H. Well, we can only do as well as our poverty will 
allow. 

Hale. Poverty? Nonsense. Listen. Before I met you 1 
belonged to a bachelor's club. 

Mks. H. Ugh ! Horrid things, bachelor's clubs. 

Hale. I think so myself now. But that was before I met 
you. Every member was bound by a terrible oath never to 
marry. 

Mrs. H. It couldn't have been so very terrible since you 
did not keep it. 

Hale. Ah, but that was before I met you. Furthermore, 
if any member did have the temerity to violate the rules, he 
was lined a thousand" dollars, which went into the club's funds 
for a jollification at the poor devil's expense, and he was for- 
ever ostracized from the society. Now, getting kicked out of 
the club doesn't bother me a little bit. But a thousand dol- 
lars ! Where would I get it? The club is in Boston; I met 
you in Chicago. We were married very quietly and came 
here to live. 1 never told any one of our marriage, and the 
club knows nothing of it. 

Mrs. H. And now ? 

Hale. Now, Douglas — the president of the society and a 
veritable woman hater — is coming to visit me. 

Mrs. H. What shall we do? 

Hale. Can't you go away somewhere? 

Mrs. H. I have no friends nearer than Chicago. . 

Hale. Hum. The money I have wouldn't take you 
farther than Hoboken. 

Mrs. H. Then I cannot even go to a hotel ? 

Hale. No. 

Mrs. H. I might spend the day in the park. 

Hale. Yes, but hang it all, he may stay a week. 

Mrs. H. Then what shall we do ? 

Hale {after thinki/ig'). Well, I have an idea. 

Mrs. H. What is it ? 



64 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Hale. I don't like it. And yet — for the sake of a thou- 
sand 

Mrs. H. Yes, yes. 

Hale. You might put on my clothing, and 

Mrs. H. And be a man ? Horrors ! 

Hale. But think of the thousand. 

Mrs. H. I know. But the — the — clothes — the — the — 
pants. Why, I — I — never wore such things in my life. 

Hale. 'I'hat is no criterion. You wouldn't be the first 
wife that wore the trousers. Still, if you do not like it 

Mrs. H. Is there no other way out of it? 

Hale. None that I can see. 

Mrs. H. Well, then — for the sake of a thousand — I'll 
do it. 

Hale {delighted^. Bravo. What a dear, good wifey you 
are. We will outwit the old fox yet. But hurry. He may 
be here at any moment. Fix up the best you can. 

Mrs. H. And what will you do? You know you have 
but one suit of clothing. 

Hale. Me? Oh, never mind me. I'll keep on this 
dressing-gown, and pretend that I am indisposed. Hurry. 
But wait. Let me see. I'll call you Lord Chauncey Pem- 
broke. I've read that name in some novel. That will do 
nicely. English lords are always effeminate. 

Mrs. H. The very thing. 1 begin to enter into the spirit 
of the lark. 

Hale {gri^nly). Lark? Yes, it would be a great one if 
he should find it out, although I don't believe we would 
appreciate the joke. 

Mrs. H. He won't find it out. Trust me for that. I'll 
fix him, the old woman-hater ! But good-bye now. Mrs. Hale 
will leave you. Lord Chauncey Pembroke will be back pres- 
ently. [^Exit, R. 

Hale. Somehow I fear we are courting destruction. But 
it is the only way I can see out of the difficulty. {Picks 2ip 
other letter.') Oh, Aunt Martha, if you were only a little more 
liberal with your gold, I would not have to resort to such 
questionable subterfuges in order to maintain my position. 
{Drops letter and rising, goes up stage to window.) A car- 
riage. I'll wager it is he now. Yes. Jack Douglas. It is he. 
{At door R., calling off.) Bessie, Bessie, how are you getting 
on? Eh? You are having trouble with the — yes, yes, of 
course they button in front. Be careful now. He is coming. 



FOR SAKE OF A THOUSAND 65 

{Knock at back, and Hale operis door. Enter Jack, a well set 
up man of middle age. A typical man of the world. Dressed 
well and carries a valise.') Good-morning, Douglas. 

Jack. Hello, old chap. Got ray letter, I suppose ? 

Hale. Yes \ I just received it this morning. 

Jack. Had to run in to New York on business, and thought 
I might as well spend a few days with you. 

Hale {aside). Days? Ye gods! {Aloud.) I am de- 
lighted, I'm sure. 

Jack. I knew you would be. Ah, breakfast ready for 
us, eh? 

Hale. Ere — no. The fact is I have a friend stopping with 
me just now. 

Jack. A friend, eh ? I hope he is one of the boys ; not a 
skirt follower. 

Hale. Oh, he is all right. 

Jack. Good ! I shall be pleased to meet him. 

Hale. Here he is. {Enter Mrs. H. She is in male 
attire.) Let me introduce you. Lord Chauncey Pembroke, 
of London ; Mr. Jack Douglas, of Boston. 

Mrs. H. {affecting a cockney style of speech). Cha'med to 
meet you, don't cher know. 

Jack. Same here, old fellow. {They shake hands .) Harry's 
friends are mine, always. Now, go ahead with your breakfast, 
I'm not hungry. (Hale and Mrs. H. sit at table.) I'll look 
on. Or no — by Jove, I'll have a drink. {Takes bottle from 
valise.) Here, Harry my boy, is some of the rare old stuff we 
used to drink. I brought a bottle along for your especial 
benefit. Any glasses? Ah, yes. {Gets glasses from stand.) 
Have a glass, me lud ? It's the finest, strongest whiskey this 
side of Olympus. 

Mrs. H. Ooooo. 

Jack {pouring). What? Don't you drink, me boy? 

Mrs. H. {looking helplessly at Hale, who nods his head 
vigorously) . Ere — yes — occasionally. 

Jack. Well, you will drink more than just "occasionally" 
after you have been with Hale a while. Why, the way he 
lushes is 

Hale {interrupting). Oh, I say, Douglas, how do you like 
my new quarters ? 

Jack. Capital. I particularly adnyred the maid who 
opened the door for me. She is a regular Diana. I don't 
wonder that you moved here. Does she wait on you ? 



66 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Hale {angrily). No. 

Jack. That is too bad. Still, I suppose she is not averse 
to a quiet little supper once in a while ? Do you remember 
when 

Hale. Yes, yes, of course. Here is to a jolly visit. 

{Offers toast and all drinky Mrs. H. with grimaces.') 

Jack. Bravo, I tell you that is the stuff to warm the heart. 
Do you remember when 

Hale. Of course. But I say, old man, just put your grip 
in my room. 

Jack. I will. Is this it? {Takes valise and exits r.) 

Hale. No, no. Too late. Confound it. He has gone 
in there, and will discover your clothing. 

Mrs. H. {rising). Oh, Harry, this is not going to be the 
lark I thought it would. I — ere — feel — dizzy. 

Hale {rising). I'm deuced sorry, Bessie, but we have got .^ 
to see the thing through now. For the sake of a thousand, 
you know. 

Enter Jack, r. JTe is holding up Mrs. H.'s dress. 

Jack {laughing). Oh, you old villain. You haven't re- 
formed one bit. But I've caught you this time. (Mrs. H. 
staggers back.) Why, what is the matter, me lud ? Is it pos- 
sible that you are not used to petticoats? Well, you are in 
the right kind of company to learn, then. Why, I remember 
when — - — 

Hale {anxiously interrupting). I say, Douglas, there's a 
good fellow. Just take a stroll for an hour or two, will you ? 
I am awfully busy with a picture that I am painting on order. 

Jack {laughing). Oh, of course you are. Why don't you 
own up and admit that you want to get us out of the house so 
you can find the person who was inside this, eh? You sly 
dog. Only up to your old tricks again. Why, I remember 
when 

Hale. Confound you, Douglas ; what I say is the truth. 

Jack. Don't say another word. We know ypu. Have a 
cigarette, Pembroke. {Offers case to Mrs. H. She glances 
helplessly to7vard Hale, who nods vigorously. With a gesture 
of resignation she takes a cigarette.) Oh, they won't kill * 
you. Great Scott ! what a green one you are. I knew some 
Britishers were effeminate, but 



FOR SAKE OF A THOUSAND 67 

Mrs. H. Oh, that's all right. 

Jack. Have a light ? ( Offers her match.) 

Hale (aside'). This will drive me mad. 

Mrs. H. I — I — don't think I'll smoke just now. 

Jack. Just as you say. But come on now, me lud. Let 
us leave Hale. It is really too bad that we interrupted his 
painting. {Laughs.') 

Hale (angrily). If you weren't my friend, I'd thrash you. 

Jack (up stage). Oh, that's all right Harry, dear fellow. I 
understand. Come on, me lud, and I'll help you cut your 
eye teeth, yes, and wisdom teeth, too. I'll show you sights 
that will make you think dear old Lunnon is a country village. 

\_Exitf whistling. 

Mrs. H. Oh, Harry, what shall I do ? 

Hale. Do? Why, confound it all, you will have to go 
with him, I suppose. But break away as soon as you can, and 
come back. 

Mrs. H. Oh, Harry, I 

Jack (outside). Pembroke? 

Hale. For the sake of a thousand, you know. (He pushes 
her off at door in back, then comes down stage.) Well, if this 
isn't the worst affair I was ever up against. To think of my 
dear little wife, always so shy and modest, togged out in male 
attire, and going off on a lark with Douglas. Gad, if it wasn't 
so much of a tragedy, it would be a screaming farce. {Sits at 
table.) And the worst of it all is, that I haven't the slightest 
idea how it is going to turn out. (Picks up aunf s letter and 
scowls at it.) Oh, Aunt Martha, if you had only done a little 
something for me. ( Opens letter. ) I suppose it is the same old 
song. My dear nephew Yes, but {Stares at let- 
ter.) This is different. (Reads.) ''My dear nephew: — I 
have just heard from a friend of mine, lately returned from 
Ciiicago, that you married Miss Bessie Reynolds, some months 
ago. You naughty boy. Why didn't you write and tell me 
all about it? However, I will not scold you. I know your 
wife's folks well, and you have chosen wisely. Marriage is an 
incentive to work, and you should have settled down long ago. 
Even at this late day, let me congratulate you, and ask you to 
accept the enclosed check as a delayed wedding present. With 
best wishes for your success, I am your loving aunt, Martha." 
Tlie check ! (^Hastily takes a check frofn envelope.) Ten 
thousand dollars. Oh, this is terrible. Why, oh, why didn't 
I read this letter sooner ? I could have stood my fine. But 



68 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE . 

now? Now? (^Rises hastily.) I must try and find them. 
(^Pauses.) Gad, I cannot. I haven't any clothing. And yet 
I must know where they are. Well, here goes. {He puts 
Mrs. H.'s wrapper on over the dressing-gown.) Now to settle 
this affair in short order. \_Exit hurriedly, at back. 

Enter Mrs. H., at door L. She comes in softly a?id peers 
about. 

Mrs. H. Harry ! Harry ! Why, he is not here. ( Crosses 
arid peers off at R.) Where can he have gone? I did as he 
told me. Got away and returned. I even slipped up the back 
way so as not to attract attention. But I cannot stand this any 
longer. I am going to change these things for dresses, come 
what may. \_Exitf r. 

Enter Jack at door in back. 

Jack. All is quiet. I wonder if they have given me the 
slip ? I thought sure I'd find me lud here. It strikes me very 
forcibly that me lud is not me lud at all, but some woman mas- 
querading in male attire. {Pause.) By Jove ! Perhaps Hale 
has taken unto himself a wife, and is trying to keep it a secret 
from the club. Well, you can bet I'll find out, if I meet me 
lud again. 

Enter Mrs. H., at R. ; she is still in her male attire. 

Mrs. H. {aside). I cannot find my wrapper. {Notices 
Jack.) Heavens, that man again. 

Jack {discovering her). Why, hello, me lud. What pos- 
sessed you to leave me in such an ungentlemanly fashion, just 
as I was about to show you some of the sights ? Why, you 
acted as skittish as a woman. 

Mrs. H. {spiritedly). Nonsense. You, whom I hear are 
president of a bachelor's club, are not competent to judge of 
how any woman acts. 

Jack. Now that was well said. But never mind that now. 
We will try and pass the time somehow until Harry returns. 
He must have gone out to finish his painting. Do you sing ? 

Mrs. H. I — ere — no. 

Jack. Too bad. I should imagine that you had a fine 
soprano voice. Well, then, let us sit here and discuss some- 
thing. {Both sit on a sofa dow?i L.) Feet for instance. 
What dainty ones you have, me lud. I don't believe you wear 



FOR SAKE OF A THOUSAND 69 

larger than number two. (^He attempts to look at her feet, but 
she springs up with a scream. Jack, aside.) I thought so. 
Now for some fun. (^Aloud.) Excuse me, me lud, but do you 
know, you are such a pretty little fellow, that I feel just like 
kissing you. 

{He attempts to seize Mrs. H., as Hale enters from back. 
He is still in the wrapper, ivhich is torn.) 

Hale (speaking off ). Now arrest me for a lunatic, will 
you, you big overgrown stuff? (Notices Jack ^?;z^/ Mrs. H.) 
Hey, there, take your hands off her 

Jack {affecting surprise). Her ? 

Hale. Yes, her. She is my wife. 

Jack (laughing). Just as 1 supposed. But whatever in- 
duced you to play such a prank on me? 

Mrs. H. For the sake of a thousand. 

Jack. The club fine, eh ? 

Hale. Yes. But thanks to Aunt Martha, who has relented 
at last, I can stand the fine. (Offers Jack money.) Here is 
your thousand. Now take it and leave us. 

Jack (taking money). No, no. I'll do neither. The es- 
capade was well worth it. (Hands money to Mrs. H.) 
And please accept this as a wedding present from the club. 
As for leaving, Harry, 1 simply can't do it either. I have be- 
come very well acquainted with Lord Chauncey Pembroke in 
the last hour ; now 1 want to become as well acquainted with 
Mrs. Harry Hale. 

(May close in with trio.) 



CURTAIN 



Marinda's Beaus 

A Pantomime for Three Males 



CHARACTERS 



Marinda, an old maid. 

Silas Oatcake, a farmer, 

M. De La Montmorency, a dashing Frenchman, 

SCENE.— Marinda's parlor. 

Marinda enters at rise of curtain. She goes to a table down 
stage, discovers two letters, and reads them both, with many 
smirks and smiles. She has on large hat. 

Silas enters. He is made up as a grotesque farmer. Car- 
ries a huge bouquet of red roses, which he keeps concealed be- 
hind his back. 

Marinda discovers him, they grin at each other, and sit to- 
gether on a sofa down l. 

Silas kisses her, after much trouble in trying to get under 
the hat. 

Marinda coyly removes her hat and goes up stage to fix her 
hair before a mirror. 

Silas takes up her hat, which she has left on the sofa, fon- 
dles it, and then places it on his own head. 

Monty enters. He is made up in exaggerated French style. 
He carries a bouquet of white roses. He notices the hat on 
Silas's head, and not seeing Marinda, slips quietly up behind 
Silas, and bending over, kisses him. 

Silas springs to his feet, and the men are about to engage in 
a quarrel, when Marinda comes between them. They then 
present their bouquets to her together \ each managing to shove 
his bouquet in the other's face. 

Marinda places Monty's bouquet in a vase on a stand down 
R., and lays Silas's bouquet on stand beside it. Then she sits 
with Monty on sofa. 

7^ 



72 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

Silas discovers the bouquets, and taking Monty's from the 
vase, throws it angrily on the floor, and substitutes his own. 

Miranda suggests tea, and goes up stage to get pot and cups. 

Silas attempts to assist her, but tears the train of her dress. 
She angry at him, and he goes and sits on other end of sofa. 
The two lovers scowl at each other. 

Marinda returns with tea. Monty attempts to pour for her, 
and spills tea in her lap. She shows anger at him, and turns 
to Silas. 

Monty gets up angrily and noticing the bouquets, throws 
Silas's on the floor and puts his own back in the vase. 

Marinda and Silas take tea things back up stage. 

Monty is about to stamp on Silas's bouquet when Silas 
discovers him. He catches him by the seat of the trousers, 
and pulls him away, at the same time pulling out the seat of 
the trousers. 

Marinda runs to Monty, consoles him and together they 
sit on the sofa. 

Silas, scowling, throws Monty's bouquet on the floor, and 
is about to place the seat of trousers in the vase, when he dis- 
covers his mistake, and tossing it on the floor, he replaces his 
own bouquet in the vase. 

Monty and Marinda billing and cooing on the sofa. 

Silas, noticing them, scowls, then goes to a piano and pre- 
tends to sing. 

{Note. — A piano off stage should here play, ''/';;/ Wearing 
My Heart Away for Voii.'') 

Marinda, charmed, turns from Monty to listen. Monty, 
angry, leaves sofa, and while Silas, at end of song, comes 
down to Marinda, Monty once more changes the bouquets, 
then goes himself to piano and sings in pantomime. 

{JPiajio off stage plays, ^^ My Money Never Gives Ont.'') 

Marinda, impressed, leaves Silas and goes to Monty. 

Silas discovers the substitution of bouquets and catching up 
his own, begins an angry quarrel with Monty. Silas slaps 
Monty's face. Monty points to two small toy swords that 
hang on the wall. Silas nods his assent. 

Monty and Silas engage in mock duel. Silas getting the 
worst of it, when he suddenly throws down his sword, and goes 



marinda's beaus 73 

At Monty with his fists. Monty falls. Silas wrenches his 
sword away and stabs him. 

{Loud explosion off stage. ^ 

Marinda, who has been watching the affair from top of 
table, now faints, and falls off table into Silas's arms. 

Silas stands fanning her with the toy sword, and with a 
satisfied grin on his face. 



CURTAIN 



I750-I9I2 

A Midnight Fantasy 

By Katherine E. Hunt 

Originally produced at Keith' s Boston Bijou Theatre ^ 
under the management of Josephine Clement^ duri7ig the 
week of September g-14, igi2. 



1750-1912 



CHARACTERS 

(As originally cast) 

The Portrait of a Colonial Belle 

(1750) . . . . . Gertrude Breen 
The Portrait of an Up-To-Date 

Beauty (19 1 2) . . . Betty Barnicoat 

SCENE. — A receptio7i-room, not too much furnished. At 
backy C, two large portraits in gilt frames, one a Colonial 
girl in appropriate costume, powdered wig. She staiids 
facing R., and holds an old fashioned bouquet with a 
paper lace frill. She fnust also wear a fan, or have one 
in the see fie. The other portrait is a girl in elaborate even- 
ing costume of the present day. She should face to l,, 
that both portraits may be back to back. A row of electric 
lights should be concealed at the side of each picture. 

{At rising of the curtain, soft music, stage in total darkness, 
clock off stage chimes midnight slowly. At the same time 
the lights come on gradually (use dimmer') and as the last 
stroke dies away, the stage is brightly lighted, with the 
strips on inside each portrait. These are posed effectively. 
At the aivakening of the first character, the music dimi?i- 
ishes, afid dies away very softly.) 

1 9 1 2 {turning very slowly, and gradually toivard audience, 
stretching gracefully, looking about in surprise and bewilder- 
ment). Oooh ! I'm so tired hanging up here all alone. How 
stiff I feel ! Oh, gee ! 

(Slowly stretches again, still looking about her.) 

1750 (awakenifig slowly, a fid ifiore demurely, facing audi- 
efice). At last ! Midnight gives me power to stretch my 
weary limbs! {Sighs prifnly.) La! had I been forced to 
stand longer, methinks, indeed, I should have swooned. 

n 



78 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

{^Repeats business of looking about y curiously,^ 

191 2 (surprised). Listen, I thought 1 heard something. 

(^Listetis intently.') 

1750 {same business). I could believe a voice sounded 
close by. 

191 2. Some one spoke. I wonder 

1750 {interrupting). Surely, I was not mistaken 

{Both step to the edge of their frames, first lookifig away^ 
then toward each other. Each, at the first sight, starts 
back in surprise and fear. They turn back, about to 
reenter their fraines, then turning away from each other 
slowly face out once more and step out, looking at each 
other all the while with intense curiosity. 1750 crosses 
to K., while 191 2 examines her frof?t head to foot ^ both 
well down stage.) 

191 2 {at L.). Look who's here! Is the masquerade just 
over? My word ! You're all dolled up. {Crosses R.) 

1750 {crossing L. with gesture of protest). Masquerade? 
Nay, madam, you are mistaken. 'Tis many years since I did 
don a mask. {Looks at 1^12 with great interest.) Pray tell me, 
to whom have I the honor of speaking? {Makes low curtsey.) 

191 2 {watching her admiringly). Classy, classy ! I couldn't 
do that in a thousand years. {Glances regretfully at her 
skirts.) At least not until the styles change. ( With imitation 
of 1750.) You are addressing, dear lady, the portrait of a skirt 
called Katherine Evangeline. {Makes slight curtsey saucily.) 
How do you like her ? 

1750 {coining nearer 191 2 and examining her daifitily ; step- 
ping back with an air of satisfaction). Verily, I like her 
much, both skirt and bodice, though {doubtfully) her words are 
passing strange. {Turns slightly toivard audience.) It is 
long since I did hold converse with one of the gentler sex — 
{jnificingly) as ours is so called — {to 191 2) and I do find you 
different from those I knew in youth. 

191 2 {iur?ti?ig a chair at R. about, and kneelifig on it 
lightly, with one knee ; to 1750, more seriously a?id incredu- 
lously). Youth ! Say, are you really old, or just kidding? 

1750 {drawing nearer, much perplexed). Kidding? I do 
not understand. 

191 2. When I first caught a glimpse of you, I thought you 



1750-1912 79 

were only make believe, but now — well, now I'm beginning to 
see light. You look like the dearest old-fashioned valentine I 
ever saw. 

1750 {interrupting eagerly). Valentines! Oh, do you like 
them ? Why, only last Valentine's day 1 did receive the most 
beauteous one, all in white paper lace, with such a lovely 
wreath. {Goes to extreme i.., well down stage.) La! it was 
passing sweet. {Sighs fondly.) And the verse hidden beneath 
tlie flowers — ((^oyly) shall I repeat it for you ? 

1 9 1 2 {turning the chair about and dropping into it ). Shoot, 
Steve, I'm listening. {Leans forward with interest.') 

1750 {horrified, rushing over to 191 2). Nay, nay, there was 
nothing in it concerning shooting. 

191 2 {at first surprised, then laughing). I meant, go on 
with the verse. 

1750 {much relieved, returning to l., casting down eyes 
demurely, repeating verse slowly and shyly). It said : 

*<The rose is red. 
The violet's blue. 
Sugar is sweet, 
(very coyly) And so are you." 

{Shyly.) What do you think of it ? 

191 2 {who, as the recital progresses, shows her disgust more 
and more plainly). Punk! 

1750 {astonished). Punk? 

191 2 {with iveariness). Stale — passe. They've improved 
some since your day. Now I'll tell you the sort of valentine I 
sent Jim. 

1750. Who is Jim? 

191 2 (^pointedly). Jim isn't any more, as far as I'm con- 
cerned. He's a " used to be." 

1750 {much perplexed). Verily, your words are as a for- 
eign tongue to me. I comprehend but little of their meaning, 
and yet they sound like English. 

191 2. It is, ^(?//>z;^ w^, the most up-to-date kind. Besides, 
being a portrait, I frame up any kind of speech I like. You 
wouldn't call me really slangy, would you? 

1750 {inquiringly). Is " slangy " something horrid ? 

191 2 {gravely). I can plainly see we should save time if I 
could present you with a Herald dictionary. 

1750 {doubtfully). Possibly, though {inincingly) I was con- 



80 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

sidered a good speller in my day. But tell me of your valen- 
tine to Mr. Jim. {Sits at l. ) 

191 2 {sittifig on arm of chair r.). Oh, Jim and I were 
great chums. We went to everything together ; just awfully 
good friends. And that was just the trouble. You see, Jimmie 
thought he knew me so well that, occasionally, when he framed 
up a date, he needn't make good. {During this 1750 makes 
great business of perplexity over each unfamiliar expression.') 
And the blow that finished me happened close onto February 
2 2d, when friend James called me up to say, at the last minute, 
of course : '* Awfully sorry, but I can't get up to that dance to- 
night." 

1750. Called you up? You mean, don't you, called up to 
you ? 

191 2. Oh, you goosie, I mean telephoned. He didn't come 
around to the house and shout it. We-11, I was sorry, too 
{with emphasis'), — for Jimmie. The next day, as I was trotting 
down Tremont Street, if I didn't just see the most suitable val- 
entine looking at me in a stationer's window ! Um ! Um ! 

1750 {eagerly). Oh, do tell me. It must have been beau- 
tiful. 

191 2 {smiling). It was, believe me. 

1750. What was the verse? 

1912, Short, but {Imitates 1750.) "La! It was 

passing sweet." Just a little kid at the top of a hill holding 
on to a sled with another youngster astride it. She was looking 
at him gravely, although by the expression of her face one could 
see her mind was quite made up, and underneath the picture it 
said {very distinctly) : " I've decided to let you slide." Well, 
that's what I sent to Jimmie. 

1750 {who makes it plain she does not understand the point ; 
douhtfully). Truly it was nice, but forgive me if I like mine 
the best. 

191 2 {smiling). I supposed you would, dear. {Leans for- 
ward, ivith a change of expression.) But look, little Dresden 
China Lady, you haven't told me who you are yet. Of course 
I know you're a portrait and lovely, but {eagerly) whose ? 
Whose ? 

1750 {crossing hands demurely, iti drea?ny tones). It was 
long, long ago, dear child, when I was eighteen and lovely. I 
walked about the long drawing-room on Beacon Hill, and I 
used to look through the tall windows to where the Mall lay 
green in the summer sunlight, or white with the winter snows. 



1750-1912 8i 

When I was painted, his Excellency, General Washington {bow- 
ing with state lines s over unfurled fan^, was President of the 
United States, and Martha Washington first lady of the land. 

1 91 2 {who has been leaning forward with interest '). Gee ! 
That sounds like United States history. Why, 7ny paint doesn't 
seem dry yet when I hear you talk. {Rubs finger over dress.) 
I'm only eighteen, and 1 can't keep still a minute. We live 
on Beacon Street, too, but you're wrong about that place you 
called the Mall ; that's Boston Common. I was painted last 
June when Bill Taft was trotting around the golf links at Bev- 
erly. I guess he's only president winters. Now, you see, I've 
told you my family history. It's up to you. What's yours? 

1750 {s?niling at her). I was a Katharine, too. Katherine 
No well. 

191 2 {who, at the word Katherine, gives a start, 7iow jumps 
to her feet and seizing the hands ^1750, draws her up also). 
Katherine Nowell ! Why, don't you see ? You're the first 
Katherine of us all. Why, you're my great-grandmother ! 

{They embrace, 191 2 with vigor, 1750 half drawing back 
at her impetuosity. Both together}^ 

1750. I Oh, my dear great-grandchild ! 

191 2. j" Dear great-grandmamma! 

191 2 {still 7vith arms about 1750; very eagerly). Oh, 
my dear ! To think I can have you for my very own ! 
I'll tell you about such loads of things you never even dreamed 
of. Telephones and telegraphs, aeroplanes, suffragettes, pho- 
nographs and pianolas 

{During this 1750 gazes at her with wide open eyes in 
wonder ; then interrupts with little flurried gesture.) 

1750. It scarcely seems possible. I am quite pleasantly 
upset; and yet, dear child, I will beheve you. (191 2 laughs.) 
How much have things changed ! Manners, customs, even 
speech is so different. But, though your words ring strangely 
{smiling), they are fair indeed. {Goes over l, to chair.) 
Wouldst like to hear of my girlhood days? (191 2 goes over 
and sits on arm of her chair ; nods eagerly. 1750, dreamily.) 
When I was young we said *' Sir " to our papas, and " Madam " 
to our dear mammas. We sewed on our samplers each day, 
sitting in little high backed chairs, yea, and longing, when the 



82 HALF HOURS OF VAUDEVILLE 

air was sweet and the day fair, to be out with the birds and the 
flowers. I do confess cross-stitch sorely tried me, it seemed so 
long and tedious to my unwilling fingers. (Sig/is ivistfidly.') 

191 2 {Jialf aloud ; sympathetically). You poor little kid ! 

1750. We always attended church on the Sabbath, no mat- 
ter what the weather, but, alack ! we sometimes fell asleep 
during the sermon. 

191 2 {laughing). Times haven't changed much in that 
respect. 

1750 (^patti?ig her hand ge?itly). But we were gay, as well 
as grave, my dear. Many a time and oft have 1 sung, yea, 
and tread a measure with the gallants of my day. 

191 2 {quickly). Oh, do you suppose you could do it now? 
Please. 

1750 {hesitatingly). I misdoubt, — it is so long ago, — and 
yet, perhaps {shyly) I can try. {Sings and dances.) 

191 2 {enthusiastically). Oh, lovely ! lovely! Do it again, 
dear great-grandmamma ! 

1750 {s7nili?ig, with gesture). Nay, child, 'tis many years 
since last I did tread a measure. Do you not find it a fair 
enough dance? 

191 2 {vigorously). Well, rather. You ought to give an 
exhibition. That's some dance, take it from one who knows. 
It seems to me, though, if I had lived when you did, I should 
have died of paralysis. Gee, when I go to a dance and the 
fellows say they can't Boston, I just ring for Moxie. Why, the 
Boston's the greatest thing ever. 

1750. I agree with you there; it is a goodly town. 

191 2. Snow again, grandmamma the great, I didn't get 
your drift. 

1750. I do not understand. 

191 2. The town is all right, but I meant the dance. The 
aviation glide, the open Boston, and the Spanish Boston. Now 
there's the best of all ! 

1750. A modern dance. Oh, please do one for me. 

1912. All right, dearie. Just hold down that chair and 
rubber. 

191 2 {dances; at the close). There. How's that? 

1750 {trying to be polite). Fair, indeed, but violent ! 

191 2 {throwing her arjns gaily about 1750 and giving her 
a hug). Oh, my dear ! Shan't we have larks together? I do 
hope we shall never be separated. Don't you ? We'll talk and 
talk 



I750-I9I2 83 

(Suddenly a cock crows off stage faintly — twice or thrice. 
Both stop short ; their arms fall at their sides y their 
gaiety fades away.) 

1750 {at L., sadly). Oh, my dear child! The day is at 
hand. We must go back. 

{Each, as she speaks, moves slowly and reluctantly back- 
ward toward her frame.) 

191 2 {stamping foot). But I don't want to go back ! I 
want to stay a long, long while. Oh, the night is young yet. 
I'm sure the cock was only dreaming. 

{By this time both have stepped back into their frames.) 

1750 {more faintly). Some other time, dear one, we shall 
speak again. 

{Both assufue first poses and settle into immobility. The 
lights grow gradually ditmner and diynmer ; soft music.) 

19 1 2 {faintly and with suggestion of drowsiness). Good- 
night, — dear — great-grandmamma. 

1750 {barely above a whisper). Good-night, — dear — great- 
grandchild. 

{As the lights grow dim, and the portraits cease to speak, a 
clock is heard to chime very faintly, as though from a 
steeple in the dista?ice. The music continues very softly, 
and when the stage is in complete darkness, the curtain 
falls.) 



CURTAIN 



3477-159 
62 



a, 5^. Pnero'0 Pa^s 



THP IWAfilSTRATF ^^^^^ ^^ Three Acts. Twelve males, four 
IWL, aiAUlJltKAlL, fgjj^ales. Costumes, modern; scenery, all 
interior. Plays two hours and a half. 

THE NOTORIOUS MBS. EBBSMITH S^ulLir^Lt^::. 

Costumes, modem ; scenery, all interiors. Plays a full evening. 

THF PROFTIfiATF 1*1^7 i^^ Four Acts. Seven males, five females. 
Scenery, three interiors, rather elaborate ; 
costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS S^lt "^0"^^::^.:^?^:;;. 

three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY ^Z^XTlt^L ^.5 

tumes, modern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

SWFFT T AVFNflFR comedy in Three Acts. Seven males, four 
^ females. Scene, a single interior; costumes, 

modem. Plays a full evening. 

TITF TIIWFS Comedy in Four Acts. Six males, seven females. 
Scene, a single interior ; costumes, modern. Plays a 
full evening. 

THF WFAP^FR SFX comedy in Three Acts. Eight males, eight 
females. Costiunes, modern ; scenery, two 
interiors. Plays a full evening. 

A WIFE WITHODT A SMILE '^^l^ ^^Z^Z..^::, 

modem ; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. 



Sent prepaid on receipt of price by 

Walttv 5p* iBafier & Company 

No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 



%1f)t l^illiam barren CtJitioti 
of ^lapfi 

^cice, 15 Centjt <£acl> 



A^ YOU I IITF IT Comedy in Five Acts. Thirteen males, four 
A J IVU MA.I4 II females. Costumes, picturesque ; scenery, va . 
ried. Plays a full evening. 

rAMITTF I^i'^ma in Five Acts. Nine males, five females. Cos - 
\^AaUL(L^Li tumes, modern ; scenery, varied. Plays a full evening;- 

TVIiOM AV Pl^y ^^ Five Acts. Thirteen males, three females . 
lilUUiUiUX Scenery varied ; costumes, Greek. Plays a full evening. 

M AUY ^TII APT Tragedy in Five Acts. Thirteen males, four fe- 
iUiilVl t^lDAHl males, and supernumeraries. Costumes, of the 
period ; scenery, varied and elaborate. Plays a full evening. 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE Srst?,;?erf7mt?e1: ^Z^l 

picturesque ; scenery varied. Plays a full evening. 

ftlCHFT IFII -^^^y ^^ ^^^^ Acts. Fifteen males, two females. Scen- 
AlvliL(L<lL<U ery elaborate ; costumes of the period. Plays a full 
evening, 

THF ttlVAT S Comedy in Five Acts. Nine males, five females. 
1 UL, Al f ALtD Scenery varied ; costumes of the period. Plays a 
full evening. 

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER aaSSienceSr- 

ried ; costumes of the period. Plays a full evening, 

TWELFTH NIfiHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL f^s%^nIS.'. 

three females. Costumes, picturesque ; scenery, varied. Plays a 
full evening. 



Sent prepaid on receipt of price by 

Walttv ^. isafier & Company 

No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 



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